


Rising To Your Challenge

by prowlstwinkass



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: (completely consensual and not related to the noncon tags), Angst, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Copious Amounts of Dialogue, Decepticon Jazz, Eventual Smut, Fluff, M/M, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Tags to be added as relevant, implied past sexual abuse, there's more angst and less sexual tension than the first chapter may imply
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-27
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-04-28 15:14:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 37
Words: 86,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14451987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prowlstwinkass/pseuds/prowlstwinkass
Summary: Jazz was a challenge that Prowl had to understand. Prowl was a challenge that Jazz had to possess.A Decepticon saboteur comes across an Autobot tactician, and fascination sparks a long game that could end very badly for both of them.





	1. Chapter 1

The coordinates lay on the outskirts of Uraya, where buildings sat oppressively empty, their occupants having fled to the inner city, or to other places on Cybertron deemed safer.

Prowl transformed, the whirr of shifting gears far too loud in the quiet. Behind him, Uraya lay lit, shining in the night, the sounds of the city faint and far away.

This was, Prowl thought, the worst decision he'd ever made.

The coordinates still lay ahead, and Prowl set off towards them on foot. A minute of walking and he reached a building as dark and empty as the rest, its door open and hanging from the hinges. Prowl balked for a moment, grimacing before stepping over the cracked threshold.

The building had once been a residential complex, but nothing remained in the foyer except dust, debris, and a broken chair.

Prowl took two steps, and then he was standing on the exact coordinates he'd been given. A check of his chronometer showed that it was a couple minutes past the meeting time proposed in the brief message. Prowl frowned, flexing his doorwings and sending a quick scan over the area. No spark signals.

The back of his neck prickled, and Prowl couldn't help but turn to check the doorway, which stood empty. Frowning, Prowl turned back.

A red visor glowed from the dark of an adjacent hallway. The dark silver Decepticon stepped forward into the weak light cast through the open door.

“I almost didn't think you'd come.” Wide lips stretched into a fanged grin. “You look better than you did last time I saw you.”

Prowl's side ached as he was reminded of the recent injury he'd received during a raid on a now-defunct Decepticon outpost. “You look… the same.”

“Really? I'm hurt. I actually polished a bit for this little meetin’.” The red visor twinkled with a dangerous humor.

Prowl stood taller, digits itching for the security of the blaster in his subspace. “I know who you are.”

The Decepticon tilted his helm, the line of his horns giving him an inquisitive shape. “Really? Tell me.”

“You're Jazz, one of Megatron’s best saboteurs. A rumor with a reputation.”

“How'd you find me out, hm? Ain't no pictures of me out there.”

“Deductive reasoning.” He'd narrowed the list down to a few mechs with reputations for the… odd behavior Jazz had exhibited in dragging Prowl’s injured frame to safety. The Decepticon Jazz in particular was known to almost mad, if the rumors of his behavior were anything to go on.

Jazz smirked. “Well how ‘bout you, mech? I never got a name out of you.”

If coming here was the first step to treason, and speaking to Jazz at all was the next, then giving his name would come right after. “Prowl.”

“Pretty. And fittin’.” Jazz took a step forward, visor gleaming. “You want to know why I saved you.”

“Yes.”

Jazz hummed, the bass sound reverberating perfectly in the room. Prowl suppressed a shiver as the note rang in his audials and along his doorwings.

“You entrance me.” Like a predator, Jazz took two steps forward. Prowl held himself in place. “You looked so cold ‘n icy out there, shootin’ down ‘cons, multitaskin’ with your tactical and ground functions. And then I found you in the hallways, and Primus you’re _hot_ inside. Like a _fire_ glowing in your optics. You… _fascinate_ me.”

Yes, being in pain did tend to weaken Prowl’s usual mask. Besides the fact that the rest of his squad had– “What do you intend to do with your infatuation?” Prowl asked, cutting of the thought before it could finish.

Jazz shrugged. “Lotta things fascinate me, Prowler, but it doesn't last forever. I pick you apart, figure you out, and then,” he grinned, sharp and dangerous, “Well, I won't need you around anymore.”

Murdering his conquests _did_ seem like something the Decepticon Jazz would do. “So I have a choice between treasonous association with a Decepticon, along with _dying_ , or staying alive and _not_ committing treason.”

“Mmm, salty.” Jazz chuckled. “Ain't treason, my mech, just conversation.” Another step forward. “You're a tactician, right? Your whole function is about knowin’. Well here I am, the one of the greatest enigmas on Cybertron. I'm not the only one who's gonna be gettin’ something outta this.”

Prowl couldn't deny, to himself at least, that he was just as intrigued by Jazz as Jazz was by him. The mech’s reputation wrote him as a madmech, but there was something more when Prowl looked at him. Something different. Something _fascinating_. Something that had pulled Prowl into coming out here, committing borderline treason for some selfish impulse he couldn't even articulate to himself.

“The fact remains that if I do allow… whatever this is to occur, I will not be walking away from it alive in the long run.” Prowl’s voice was as cool and inflectionless as ever, but inside his chest his spark shook with excited agitation, and his processor raced with all the possibilities, all the places this could lead. Jazz was an enigma, unknowable, and Primus if Prowl wasn't as much a slave to his curiosity as the Decepticon was.

“I'm a fickle mech, love. Who knows, maybe you'll live. Maybe _I’ll_ die. Only one way of knowing.” Jazz bared his teeth in a wide grin. “So whaddya say, Autobot? Wanna see where this takes us? I learn you and you learn me?” He stuck out a servo to shake. Prowl glanced at it skeptically, and Jazz huffed out a short laugh. “Yep. Deal with the devil, old-fashioned style.”

_Frag it_. There was literally no way to justify any of this to himself, but Prowl would shake that servo anyway. Steeling himself, Prowl took Jazz’s servo firmly in his own.

Surprise broke through Prowl’s stiff mask as, rather than shaking their clasped servos, Jazz pulled him off balance. Jazz pinned the doorwinger to his chest with an arm about the waist, seizing a hard, biting kiss. After a short second of frozen surprise Prowl wrenched himself away. Jazz let him go, grinning.

“Like I said, old-fashioned style.”

Prowl stepped back, resettling his ruffled armor. “Well,” he said, lifting his chin and flaring his doorwings. “If the purpose of this meeting has been accomplished, I will take my leave.”

“Of course. Off you go.” Jazz waved a servo. “I'll be seein’ you around.”

Prowl gave no reply, already backing out of the building and flipping into his alt. mode. Agitation had him speeding back to the base.

  
A week passed with no contact from Jazz. Prowl didn't let himself think about it too much, forcing himself to go about his business as usual. As a strategist and field tactician, he had a fair amount of duties that kept him suitably occupied and ensured that he didn't think too much about The Jazz Business.

Decepticon activity was at a low point, which was quite good for Prowl because according to the medics he shouldn't go out on the field for another week. That left him with deskwork; sifting through data, making up plans, working out patterns, trying to find out just what the Decepticons were up to because such little activity was more a concern than a relief.

“Prowl,” called Haloid, head of the tactical department. Prowl looked up from his terminal, doorwings rising attentively, even as his spark sank.

“Yes, sir?” he replied.

“I want you to go down to Ops and retrieve the latest intel. If there's anything to use in there, work with Trailcutter on analysis.”

“Yes, sir.” Prowl rose from his terminal, switching it off and pushing his chair back in. Prowl felt every optic on him as he left the tactical suite, and his spark pulsed with seething humiliation. This sort of ferry work was better assigned to a messenger, and the analysis work below Prowl’s station as a senior tactician, better delegated to a junior analyst. But Haloid considered Prowl a threat to his position as TacHead, Prowl’s skill and successful track record risking his being noticed by high command and usurping Haloid as Uraya’s TacHead.

Prowl’s ambitions did indeed extend towards Haloid’s position, but the mech’s petty response to Prowl’s goals –which Haloid couldn't even be certain of, since Prowl did not make a point of advertising such things– was irritating and humiliating, and Prowl quite frankly despised his current CO.

Prowl walked briskly down the hall (just because he hated the task didn't mean he wouldn't complete it efficiently), clipping past other mecha going about their duties. They gave him no mind, and Prowl didn't care for their presence either. As he walked, another mech fell into place just behind Prowl’s left side. Prowl ignored the mech, certain they were simply walking the same way for a time.

“Well that was a bit of an embarrassment, huh, Prowler?”

It was only because Prowl was so intent on his course that he did not freeze in his tracks. Looking sharply over his shoulder, Prowl’s optics met a disconcertingly blue visor. Jazz smiled.

“Do I look good? I always thought red looked fiercer, but blue’s got its own intimidation.”

Prowl turned his face forward and forced himself not to quicken his pace. “What are you doing here?”

“Nope! My question first.” Jazz sped up until he walked abreast with the Autobot.

Prowl glanced at Jazz’s face for a moment. “You look good enough.”

“Passive-aggressive, what a classic.” Jazz chuckled. “As for _your_ question, well, I'm here to see you. Told ya I'd see you around.”

“You shouldn't be here.” They passed by a small group of off-duty mecha. Prowl tensed, but they passed by without any idea that a highly dangerous Decepticon was within the base.

“And we shouldn't even be talkin’, accordin’ to you.” Jazz winked, one gradient half of his visor blinking black. “If you're worried about bein’ found out, this ain't my first rodeo. No one’ll know unless I want ‘em to.”

“I don't doubt it.” Prowl turned a corner sharply and felt a small pang of satisfaction as Jazz quickened his pace for a moment to catch up. “How will you justify your presence if someone finds they don't recognize you?”

“No one recognizes everyone in this kind o’ base, mech. But fear not, a couple new units shipped in yesterday. I decided that unremarkable and friendless Groundfire would benefit from dying and I would benefit from being him.”

Prowl kept going for a moment before halting in a camera blindspot. Turning on his heel, Prowl met Jazz’s sharp smile with a frown.

“You killed someone.”

Jazz shrugged. “No one’ll miss him! Let's not let a pesky little murder get in the way of our flourishin’ relationship, eh?”

Prowl grimaced. “You killed someone, Jazz, you can't just carry on without consequences.”

“Well I dunno, I've done it plenty o’ times before.” A smirk curled the corner of Jazz’s mouth. “Don't get all twisted up, love, I've made sure it won't come back to either of us.”

Prowl stared at Jazz a moment longer, some strange mix of disgusted fascination welling in his chest. Turning away, Prowl set off on his original course as Jazz’s smirk widened.

The Ops department was towards the outer edges of the base. Rubicon said it was for the security of returning operatives and agents, and perhaps it was that, but Prowl suspected it was also that the Ops mecha liked both the isolation and the inconvenience such a distance caused for other departments that required frequent cooperation with Ops.

Of course, perhaps that was just Prowl being bitter that he had to come down to Ops so often on Haloid’s orders.

Stepping into the Ops department, Prowl made his way over to Rubicon’s office. The Ops department looked quite a bit different from Tactical, more tables and chairs than terminals, but it wasn't Prowl’s business to decide how Ops did their work. Ignoring the looks he got from the few mecha hanging around the room (a mixture of amused and wry) Prowl knocked on Rubicon’s door, slipping inside when the mech called him in.

“You again? Haloid needs to find a new messenger.” Rubicon shook his helm. His yellow optics landed on something over Prowl’s shoulder, and Prowl didn't need to look to know it was Jazz. “A friend?” Rubicon asked as he picked out the datapads Prowl needed from the unseemly clutter on his desk.

“Of a sort, sir.”

Rubicon raised a brow, looking between the two mecha. “I didn't take you for an interfacing mech, Prowl. Congratulations.”

Prowl felt his cheeks heat even as Jazz let out a loud laugh.

“Naw, boss,” Jazz said, voice bright and clear, unlike the half-growl Prowl had been hearing from him in their conversations. “It ain't like that. We jus’ friends. Or I hope to be, at least.”

“You're from the new units?” Rubicon pulled a datapad from under an empty energon cube, flicking it on for a moment before setting it onto the slowly growing stack that Prowl really just wanted to take and leave.

“Yep.”

“Good for you.” Rubicon pushed the datapads over the table. “I'll have a talk with Haloid about use of resources, Prowl. He's wasting you on analysis.”

“Of course, sir.” Prowl gathered up the datapads and waited to be dismissed, unwilling to spend another minute on this silly errand and inane conversation.

“I could have you transferred to my department. Primus knows we need a good field tactician.”

“If you like, sir.”

Rubicon huffed and shook his helm. “A staid neutral– typical Praxian. Get those down to Tactical, then. Maybe there's something you can use.”

Prowl left quickly when Rubicon finally gave his dismissal, relieved to finally be free of that entire wreck of an exchange.

“Always nice to see how the other side runs itself.” Jazz scoffed and shook his helm. “A bit hypocritical of me, yeah, but I'd say that mech didn't leave much of an impression in the way of competency.”

“He does his job, that's what matters.” Prowl flicked on one of the datapads in his servos, looking over its contents as he walked. A heavy heat hovered over his shoulder, and Prowl flicked his wing, catching Jazz on the nose. The Decepticon lurched back, laughing.

“What? Not as though it'll make much difference, I could just take that from you!” In a blur of silver, Jazz snatched the datapad from Prowl’s servo. Prowl reached after it, but Jazz had already danced out of reach.

“I won't be pulled into some childish game of chase,” Prowl said sternly, planting his pedes and lifting his chin. The rest of the datapads he belatedly put into his subspace. “Give it back, I have work to do.”

Jazz onlined the datapad, casually perusing the contents. “Work that's _way_ below your station.”

“I still have to complete it.” Prowl turned and continued his journey– a gamble, but one that he won as Jazz followed close behind.

“Such a goodie-goodie, followin’ the orders of a mech that’s just try’na drag you down.” Jazz matched Prowl’s brisk pace easily, tilting his helm into Prowl’s field of vision. “What's stoppin’ you from just takin’ over? You could if you pulled the right strings.”

Prowl cast the Decepticon a short, deadpan glare. “I would rather climb the ranks on my own merit than someone else’s.”

“That ain't the way this world works, Prowler.”

Icy optics dimmed for a moment before brightening. “Well I've had enough of _politics_ to last me a lifetime.”

“So bitter.” Jazz stared openly at Prowl’s face, expression serious. “Rubicon said you're Praxian.”

“I was constructed and spent my formative years in Praxus, yes. But I haven't been there for vorns.” Bad memories in Praxus, bad memories in Iacon... Prowl just couldn't escape them. “And you?”

“That ain't the way this game works.”

“On the contrary, we are both investigating the other. A give and take.”

“Where you give and I take.”

Prowl couldn't help but laugh, short and quick. “No.” He shook his helm, quashing the smile that turned his lips. “It's not a good game if you're the only one playing. This is a mutual endeavor.”

Jazz chewed on his lip in obvious thought, and Prowl knew that he'd already made up his mind. “Alright, mech, I'll take that. One question ‘n answer for another. _Direct_ question. Inferred info and learned stuff don't count.”

Prowl inclined his helm. “Very well. Now, my answer?”

The Decepticon turned his face forward. “Tarn.” He glanced at Prowl and smirked at the surprise on his face. “I know, it's the accent, isn't it? Most think I'm from Polyhex.”

“You were one of Megatron’s first recruits?”

“Naw, mech, I left Tarn long before all that started up.” Jazz tilted his helm. “And you? Question for a question. You been in the Autobots since the beginning?”

“That depends on what you consider the beginning to be.”

Prowl stopped outside the entrance to Tactical and easily took his datapad from Jazz’s servos. “Thank you for the escort, but I do have work to do. I'm sure I will see you later.” Bowing his helm, Prowl turned and entered the Tactical department.

Trailcutter was waiting by Prowl’s usual terminal, picking at a loose chip of paint on his arm.

“There you are,” the mech said as Prowl approached. “Been a while, hasn't it? You're usually rather quick with this stuff.”

“I was held up.” Prowl pulled out his chair and sat down, retrieving the datapads from subspace and feeding the data into his terminal. Opening his hardline port, Prowl plugged into the terminal. Trailcutter did the same, and they began their work.


	2. Chapter 2

Another day, another long shift under Haloid. Two long shifts, actually, because of Haloid. “There's more work to do and you and I both know you don't have anything waiting for you after your shift,” he'd said. Prowl had reluctantly complied, because Haloid was the sort to file a refusal as insubordination when he felt threatened.

Let the mech think he was winning, Prowl thought. Let him think that because he kept on pushing Prowl down that Prowl was deterred. Prowl didn't care for Haloid in the least, the TacHead relegated to the lowest of those holding Prowl’s respect and esteem.

Prowl walked into the rec. room with his chin up even as fatigue threatened to close his optics. He'd rather be anywhere other than a rec. room at the moment, but the energon dispensers were always put there. Thankfully the room was less occupied at this time of night, and Prowl reached the dispensers without meeting anyone’s optic.

The dispenser refused to comply with Prowl’s motions, and he squinted at the display, vision blurred with weariness.

“Lemme get that for you.” A blurry silver limb invaded Prowl’s field of vision. A moment later, Jazz was pushing a cube into Prowl’s servos. “Damn, you look like slag.”

Prowl squinted at Jazz’s face. “Where’ve you been? I haven't seen you for two days.”

“You look like you haven't recharged since I last saw you.” Jazz leaned in close, their noses almost touching.

“You haven't killed anyone else, have you?”

Jazz laughed. “Wouldn't you like to know?” Seeing Prowl’s frown, the mech only laughed again. “Calm down, Prowler, I haven't touched a single one o’ your precious Autobots– at least, not in a malicious fashion.” His visor flickered in a wink.

Shaking his helm, Prowl turned away, determined to retreat to his quarters, drink his energon, and recharge through the night. Unfortunately, Jazz followed him.

“What do you want?” Prowl said through clenched teeth, processor aching behind his optics.

“You know exactly what I want.”

Prowl sighed. “Yes, I do. Why are you following me, right now, at this very moment.”

“‘Cause it makes you so _very_ happy.” Jazz flashed a sharp smile.

Too tired to argue, Prowl quickened his pace, letting his optics dim as he made his way by the sensory feedback of his doorwings. By the time he reached his quarters, Prowl’s optics had shut off completely, and he typed in the code by touch rather than sight.

Shuffling into the room, Prowl waited to hear Jazz close the door before Prowl sat down on his berth, pushed into a corner and leaving little space remaining in the room.

“Nice digs. Kinda small.” Jazz dropped into the chair at the catty-cornered desk.

Prowl shrugged. “At least I don't have to have a roommate.” Prowl took a long drink from the energon cube in his servos. A few seconds, and Prowl had drunk the whole cube. Jazz laughed.

“You eat fast,” he said. “What happened to savoring the good things?”

“No point.” Prowl banished the cube to subspace and let himself fall into a weary slouch, forearms braced on his knees. Scrubbing a servo over his face, Prowl let out a long, heavy sigh.

“Haloid overworkin’ you, mech?”

“Perhaps.” Prowl looked up at Jazz balefully. “I would appreciate it if you left, Jazz.”

Jazz grinned. “Sorry, love, implied requests won’t catch with this mech.” He leaned forward, mirroring Prowl’s posture. “Why don't you lie down there, an’ I'll keep watch, make sure no one’s out t’ kill you.”

Prowl’s spark convulsed at the thought of allowing himself to be in such a vulnerable position in the Decepticon’s presence. “What if the ‘one’ would happen to be you?”

“Then I'll make sure _I'm_ not out t’ kill you.” Jazz’s visor flashed with amusement.

Frustration had Prowl’s wings flexing wide. “I'm not in the mood for this game, Jazz.”

“All the more reason to play it.”

Prowl’s optics flashed, and he felt himself make a bad decision. “Alright.” He lay on the berth, resting on his side and pushing back until his back hit the wall. Prowl patted the space left on the berth. “Join me.”

Jazz was too good to look caught off guard, but the second he hesitated gave Prowl the satisfaction he wanted. Then Jazz was crossing the room and lying on the bed, flat on his back. Prowl hadn't seen him take the knife out, but Jazz held one loosely in his servo, resting casually on his abdomen.

“That's a pretty good power move, Prowler.” Jazz smiled at the ceiling. “I'm impressed.”

“Thank you.”

The strange balance between danger and security kept Prowl awake for only a few minutes. Then weariness and the warmth of a frame right next to him lulled him into recharge.

  
Prowl floated out of the dark, and he didn't know how long he'd been asleep.

Then a growl echoed in the room, a bass that shivered over Prowl’s wings. Prowl’s optics flared online. He stared at the dark silhouette of Jazz’s profile. The mech’s teeth were bared, and that guttural growl emanated from his mouth again. His servo creaked, grip tightening on the hilt of his knife.

Prowl stayed still, didn't even ventilate until Jazz’s nightmare faded and his tense frame relaxed. Then Prowl let sleep take him again.

  
“You talk in your sleep.”

Prowl opened one optic, peering blearily at the dim red of Jazz’s visor. “That's awkward,” Prowl mumbled wearily.

“Not much, love, don't worry. Just words. Disconnected sentences.” Jazz lifted his knife into the air, turning its blade against the dim light of the lamp on Prowl’s desk.

“What's the time?” Prowl rolled onto his front awkwardly, letting his doorwings wave in the air. Jazz hummed, and Prowl’s wings shivered.

“Not time to get up, mech. Go back to sleep.”

Prowl did so.

  
Prowl shut off his alarm three times before actually getting out of his berth. Jazz wasn't there, no surprise. The knife was on the desk, the blade wedged a few centimeters into the metal. Prowl yanked it out with a little effort.

It was a practical thing, no ornamentation on it. Prowl put it into his subspace.

A cube of energon snatched from the filling rec. room, then Prowl left to Tactical. Zenith, Haloid’s second in command, lifted a servo to call Prowl’s attention as the doorwinger entered the room.

“You were right about those patterns, it seems the Decepticons are preparing for something. We think it's an assault on Uraya.” Zenith gestured to the projections on the terminal. “I'd like you to work on possible contingencies. I don't want us to be the one to attack first, but we have to be prepared if, or when, they attack.”

‘Don't want us to be the one to attack first.’ Like a politician, Prowl mused, even as he sat obediently in the seat Zenith directed him to. Zenith always spoke like a politician. It was odd, but not too much so. A character quirk, perhaps. Prowl didn't like it.

Then Prowl lost himself in his work, calculations flying from his processor and through the hardline connecting him to the terminal. This was why he was the best– his processor, advanced beyond what it should be, what he'd been constructed with. No one had understood why, when he was younger. Only forged mecha get _special_ things. _Unusual_ talents.

But Prowl was luckier than the others. He fit the mold (of course he did, he was made in one). And Prowl knew to be glad, every day, that he fit the function he was constructed for.

And Prowl loved it. Data swirled around him, and Prowl plucked from the streams like a miner from a rich energon vein. If they do this, then we do this. But if they do something else, we do that. If they send seekers first, we do this. If they send heavies first, we do that. Endless possibilities, and Prowl loved taking each one as they came to him, beautiful and completely unique. This wasn't like a stacking of blocks, or attaching cut out words into sentences. This was sailing down a stream– a thousand streams, a million. Each one inevitable, until they weren't.

A turbofox behind a door is both dead and alive before you open the door and see which truth it is.

Each and every possibility came to him, alternate universes that had yet to split apart. Every single one, so of course there were discards. No, the Decepticons would not send a single mech out alone. No, they would not attack en mass (though Prowl tucked that one away to a little folder of maybe’s). No, Megatron would not show up personally to beat at the walls with a hammer. Prowl let himself smile at the image even as the contingency appeared and vanished from his processor thread in less than one thousandth of a second.

Of course, this sort of strategy work was not meant to be so focused and narrow. One uses a wide brush to paint a sketch. So Prowl was forced to pull back, to choose the ones with the highest percentages based on the data. Broad sweeps of assumptions made the picture of these ones, and each unable to extend beyond the first thirty minutes of the assault. No plan survives contact with the enemy.

Prowl filed those strategies into the terminal, even as he flicked through his favorite of the needlessly complex possibilities and saved them to a folder. Then he deleted the rest.

The whole shift had passed while Prowl was immersed in the data. His frame ached from lack of movement, and Prowl stood up from his chair, flexing his arms and arching his back to work coolant back into his joints.

Haloid made his way over, and Prowl stifled a sigh.

“Prowl, I’d like you on analysis again,” the TacHead said. “Rubicon just brought in some more data. When you're done, work it into the strategies you've developed.”

Prowl managed not to grimace. “My shift’s ended, sir.”

“Yes, and I’d like you you stay for the next one.”

“Sir, I pulled two shifts yesterday on your request.”

Haloid’s optics hardened. “And you'll pull two again at my command, Lieutenant.”

Prowl’s spark sank. He bowed his helm. “Of course, sir.”

Haloid left the department. _His_ shift was over. Prowl let his lips twist into a bitter sneer as he sat back down at the terminal he'd been using.

“Rough stuff, mech.”

Prowl spared a glance at Jazz while he plugged his hardline into the terminal again. “No one’s questioning why you're here?” Prowl asked in a low voice, lost to all but Jazz in the whirr of terminal ventilators and chatter of working tacticians.

“Look confident enough and you can get almost anywhere.” Jazz slouched casually in the seat of the next terminal down, tracing the edges of the buttons with his claws.

“Of course.” Prowl set his processor to work on the fresh data sent from Haloid’s terminal to his own. “You wouldn't happen to have any intel about the possible assault on Uraya that the Decepticons are planning, do you?”

“Sorry, love, I left that intel in my other briefcase.” Jazz tilted his helm. “You working on analysis?”

Prowl blinked. “Yes.”

“How much of your processor have you got working on it?”

“Forty percent.” More than enough to get it done quickly.

“You're fascinatingly articulate.”

Prowl dipped his helm. “I'll take that as a compliment.”

Jazz’s gaze seemed to focus on Prowl’s face, the gleam of his visor intensifying. “Only mech I've met who could multitask like that was Soundwave.”

“I see.” Something was off in the data. Prowl split his conscious focus, narrowing in on that odd feeling. Like looking at a picture where there's something off but you can't quite tell. “How did you sleep last night?” Prowl asked, to spur on the conversation.

“Well enough. You woke me with your muttering once.”

Prowl vaguely remembered that. “What did I say?” Something was off in the data. The Decepticons were stretching their ranks, placing their forces as if to charge the forward wall of Uraya. But something niggled at Prowl’s processor, and he couldn't tell what it was.

“Couldn't quite tell. You said ‘you don't have a face’ once, that was kind of funny.” Jazz laughed at the memory. Prowl didn't bother feeling disturbed that he'd apparently dreamt of Tumbler last night, too focused on that uncomfortable off-ness he felt as he combed the data.

“Hilarious.” Familiar was what this looked. The way the Decepticons were placed. It looked oddly familiar. Some strategy they'd used before, perhaps? “What else did I say?” Something in Prowl’s processor highlighted data just a few orns old– new units shipped to the Decepticon base.

“Heard a name, I think, couldn't quite make it out.”

But what why was that important? Of course they'd ship in more combat units if they were planning an assault.

Except…

And then it all clicked into place.

“Oh Primus.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I plan to update weekly, and I have up to chapter five written so far, but I'll try to keep that four chapter buffer in place and write a chapter a week
> 
> Prowl's past isn't going to play TOO big a role in this but I'll allude to it somewhat heavily and I'll probably spill the beans at some point because it does play a role in how he came to like whatever point he's at


	3. Chapter 3

“No that wasn't it,” Jazz said, “Though I admit you had that sort of dreading tone then too.”

The Decepticons honestly had the worst timing.

Prowl didn't jump when the alert of an oncoming assault came over the comms. Around him, the mecha of the Tactical department were jumping into action.

“Oh, that's exciting.” Jazz didn't move from the chair he slouched in, watching Prowl’s face intently.

Sensor feeds from Autobot field commanders were rolling in as they began mobilizing their forces. The Decepticon ground forces were only a few minutes away. They sent the seekers first (of course they did). The city rumbled outside the building as the seekers made their first strafing run.

::Prowl!:: It was Zenith. The mech himself was at the head of the room, directing the forces to ready points. ::Get down to Steelrun, we need you on point out there.::

Prowl frowned. ::What?:: That was a stupid idea. They couldn't send tacticians out into a battle like this, where things could just as easily be directed from the TacSuite.

::Go, Prowl! That's an order!::

Prowl had to obey, even as unease pricked at his mind. Disconnecting from the terminal, Prowl took a moment to check where Zenith had set Steelrun’s unit to go.

They'd be frontline.

Prowl let himself be surprised for a moment before pushing it away. Pushing away from the terminal, Prowl rose from his chair, ready to sprint down to Steelrun’s location.

“Prowl.” A servo caught his wrist, and Prowl jumped. Jazz stood up. “Tell me what's happening.”

“A battle. I have to go to the frontline.” Prowl shook Jazz off and ran. He was a corridor away from Tactical when he saw Haloid, also in a hurry, and Prowl abruptly remembered what he'd discovered just a minute ago.

“Haloid! Sir! I recognize the strategy they're using.” Prowl changed course to follow behind Haloid, hurrying after the TacHead.

Zenith looked up as they entered Tactical. “Prowl! I thought I told you–”

Haloid cut the mech off with a summoning gesture. Zenith frowned and made his way over. Haloid led the party to his office.

“What's the situation, Zenith?” Haloid stood by his desk, attention focused on his second in command.

“Decepticon ground forces are on their way, ETA three minutes. Decepticon air forces have already done one strafing run, but our anti-aircraft cannons are set up by now so we’ll have a defense when they come back around.”

“Good. Check the flanks, this may be a distraction.”

Prowl cut in. “It is, sir.”

Haloid turned an irritated gaze on the doorwinger. “And how do you come to that conclusion?”

“This is my plan, sir. I formulated it over a year ago.”

Haloid frowned. “Why? I don't recall having you organize any city assaults.”

“It's-” Prowl’s wings jerked for a moment. “I enjoy forming strategies in my spare time, sir. And,” Prowl raised his voice to cut Haloid off before he could interject, “And I recognize this, sir. It's almost identical. The shape of the forward assault, the timing. They shipped in new units a few days ago, but they aren't combat units. They're diggers.”

Comprehension finally dawned. “They're digging under the city.”

“Yes. We have to prepare for it. If the Decepticons are attacking now, that means the diggers are almost to their projected exit.”

Haloid was a self-absorbed slagger, but he knew when he had to do his job. “Alright, we’ll send scans through the city. Did your projections have the diggers coming from a particular direction?”

“Yes, but I don't know how much the Decepticons may have altered the strategy.”

“How would they even have gotten it?”

Prowl spread his servos in a shrug. “I don't know. I kept the strategies in my work terminal, under a coded file. They aren't exactly valuable, though they can be useful.”

“Alright,” Haloid nodded, “We’ll alert Rubicon to a potential spy incursion after this whole mess is over with.”

“Now that that's dealt with,” Zenith broke in, “I did give you orders to get down to Steelrun’s unit before we start mobilizing.”

Haloid looked to his second. “You're putting Prowl on the front? That's a waste of resources.”

Zenith raised a placating servo. “If we do somehow lose contact with the front, Prowl will be there to handle things. This is a delicate situation, and we have to be prepared lest the worst should happen.”

The TacHead looked thoughtfully at Prowl for a moment. “Yes, alright. Put Steelrun’s unit further back, though. We can't lose a tactician to a stray blaster shot.”

“Of course, sir.” Zenith inclined his helm.

Haloid waved a servo to the doorwinger. “You're dismissed, Prowl. Get down to Steelrun, keep in mind what you've told us.”

“Yes, sir.” Prowl bowed his helm and hurried out. With two kliks maximum to reach Steelrun’s unit, Prowl transformed, weaving around the pedes in the moderately busy hallways.

 

Prowl was equipped for combat, of course. That was why he was one of the few field tacticians available to Uraya; capable of being on the field, in the battle, even while directing it.

Right now, though, Prowl was doing little for his tactical function other than being another sensor node for the tacticians back in the base. With the advanced sensor suite in his doorwings, Prowl could detect more than those with average sensor suites. That data could be translated and utilized to organize Autobot troops in retaliation to Decepticon movements.

Zenith’s voice buzzed in the comm. link of every active Autobot, as it had for the past hour of battle. Close to the strategy the Decepticons had stolen from Prowl, enemy forces had surfaced perpendicular to the forward attack. At least, Prowl thought when it happened, they could not attack from deep within, or indeed from the rear. That would have been bad.

Things were bad now, though, or at least according to the comm. stream Prowl had tapped into. The mech on the ground does not get to see the bigger picture, but Prowl was better than that, and he saw. It was not pretty.

The Decepticons were pushing in deeper, the diggers giving them an advantage on that flank. The situation was by no means a death sentence, but allowed to continue, it could become one.

Prowl ducked behind a crumbling wall as blaster fire lanced through the air. Bodies were few as of yet, but injuries were common. Prowl had a fresh scorch mark on his leg, and that only because some mech whose name he didn't know had yanked him roughly away as Prowl stood still in a moment of distraction.

“Pay attention, mech!” the unknown Autobot yelled over the roar of battle. Prowl nodded.

::Repeat that to me?:: Prowl said into his comm.

::Haloid’s dead, Prowler.:: Jazz’s voice was cool and unhurried. ::I thought you oughta know.::

Prowl took advantage of a lull in enemy fire to lean about the edge of his cover, firing his rifle at the dusty shine of a shoulder pauldron. A flash of satisfaction struck Prowl as the target fell back with a hole in his shoulder.

::How did he die? He's not anywhere near the battlefield.::

::Mech was found in his office with a knife in his chest.::

::I don't exactly see why you have to alert me to this during the battle instead of after.:: Prowl grimaced faintly as a mech not a meter away fell to the ground with a hole in his face.

::Y’know Zenith, right?::

Another lull in fire. Prowl leaned out and took down two mecha. ::Of course I do.::

::Well, love, Zenith’s in charge now and I'm dissatisfied with that. Mech’s a right mess with this slag. You'd almost think he was doing it on purpose.::

::What are you saying, Jazz?::

::I’m sayin’ get your aft up here if you want your Autobots to keep Uraya.::

Prowl checked the charge in his cartridge clip. ::Why.::

::’Cause I wanna see you do it.:: Prowl could hear Jazz’s grin. ::Also Zenith is probably a Decepticon sympathizer so it'd be in your best interest.::

::How do you know that?::

::Ah, Prowler, this mech’s got diaries full of this stuff! Decided I'd read ‘em and Primus there's some good slag here.:: Jazz paused. ::Get up here, Prowl. Save the day. Be a hero.::

::That's sentimental.:: Prowl transformed and raced away from the fight, ignoring the angry calls and comms from Steelrun.

::Aren't Autobots supposed to be sentimental?::

::That's the stereotype.::

Even though there was a battle going on, and the Autobots weren't winning, Prowl found the minutes racing up to the base thrilling. It had been a while since he'd driven so fast, and the ache of pushing himself felt good.

No one stopped him when he drove through the halls. The corridors around Tactical were empty, but the department itself buzzed with activity. Prowl transformed into bipedal and entered. Few looked up and saw him, and none found his presence unusual.

“So how you gonna go about this?” Jazz said, standing at Prowl’s side as the doorwinger looked over the room.

“Well it is a bit difficult to accuse someone of being a Decepticon sympathizer while in the middle of a battle that they are directing.” Prowl glanced at the Decepticon. “On the word of a mech no one knows or trusts.” Standing here now, Prowl felt doubt prick at the back of his mind.

“You don't gotta trust me on this. Y’don’t even gotta accuse him. Take charge. We all know it's for the best. He's clearly compromised by the sudden death of his superior.”

Prowl looked at Zenith, and he did indeed have a faint pallor to his plating. “He looks almost ill.”

“Mech’s not the killing type, even if he thought he was.” Jazz’s voice carried no hint of sympathy.

Prowl met Jazz’s gaze, and they stared at one another. Something passed between them, though Prowl couldn't be sure what it was.

The black and white tactician approached Zenith quietly, pedesteps silent and unheard in the bustle of the room. Standing by Zenith’s elbow, Prowl studied the mech for a moment before saying quietly, “Let me take over, Zenith.”

Zenith jerked subtly, optics flashing online for a moment before he fell back into his work. “You should be out there, Prowl.”

“I heard about Haloid.” Prowl had never been good at sympathy, especially if he didn’t actually mean it. “And you don't look well. You need to get to a medic.”

“I will, after this.”

Prowl’s jaw clenched. “We are losing this battle, Zenith. You aren't working at peak performance. I know I can pull us through this.”

Zenith shook his helm. “I can't do that, Prowl.”

“Zenith, look at me.”

The other mech did so, his gaze slightly fogged as his processor worked hard on split second tactical decisions.

“I will accept the consequences of this,” Prowl said. Zenith only had a moment to look confused before Prowl jabbed at a sensor patch in his side, a common weakness for his frametype. Zenith gasped and fell out of his chair, hardline breaking away from the terminal.

Prowl quickly connected to the terminal, taking in the flowing data in less than a second, and giving orders to unit commanders a moment later. The brief void in tactical output did not affect the continuing battle, thankfully.

“Prowl?” said Trailcutter uncertainly, helping up a limp Zenith.

“He's not fit for duty. Take him to the medbay.”

“But–”

Prowl turned his helm to lock eyes with the junior tactician. “Do it, Trailcutter.”

Trailcutter hesitated, then nodded. Prowl turned away, offlining his optics and throwing himself entirely into the present situation.

This sort of thing was almost like creating contingencies, except that each slice of data had to be answered as soon as possible, and all the best ways to respond had to be ready in as little time as one could manage.

For those untrained or simply incapable, such a feat would seem impossible. But Prowl was both well trained and very capable, and the work came to him as easy as breathing.

Turning the tide of battle took almost three hours. Beating the Decepticons back took another six hours unto itself. When at last the Decepticons began to retreat, Prowl heaved an exhausted sigh. Handing over the wrap up to another senior tactician, Prowl disconnected from the terminal, stood, and stretched.

Casualties stood at 23%, injuries at 59%. The tunnels had been the worst of everything, and Prowl had in the end been forced to simply have them blown up, resulting in damage to a fair portion of the city.

When Prowl left Tactical, more exhausted than he had been the night before and desperate for his berth, Jazz was nowhere to be seen. After a moment’s dithering in the halls, Prowl decided he needed rest more than fuel and headed for his room.

Only a few minutes after he lay down, Prowl drifted into recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment, I thrive on feedback


	4. Chapter 4

“This is the report for the assault on Uraya.”

Optimus Prime looked up and accepted the datapad with a polite nod. Smokescreen stood by politely as the Prime skimmed through the summary. A word caught his optic, and Optimus paused.

“The operative tactician is unfamiliar to me,” the Autobot leader said. “Prowl? I thought Zenith was their best defensive tactician.”

Smokescreen nodded. “There was an incident– a few incidents, really. It's detailed in the report, but I can inform you if you prefer.”

“No, thank you, Smokescreen.” Optimus Prime gave the younger mech his dismissal, and the TacHead bowed his helm respectfully before leaving.

The report was very thorough. Hearing of Haloid’s death (presumed to be somewhere within the first ten to fifteen minutes of battle, according to the report) caused a pang of grief in the Prime, though Optimus had hardly known the mech personally, having never met him. According to the report the next hour of battle, directed by Zenith, went poorly, until First Lieutenant Prowl disobeyed orders and left the frontline to jump ranks and take control. From there it was a steady climb upwards for the Autobots, over eight hours passing before the battle finally ended in the Autobots’ favor.

Intrigued, Optimus turned to his console, inquiring as to the status of First Lieutenant Prowl, based in Uraya. Prowl, the database informed the Prime, was under restricted rations and extended duty shifts for insubordination. Perhaps, Optimus mused, a smile under his mask, they let the mech off easy for saving them all.

Optimus opened the available datafile, discovering it to be Prowl’s history– what little of it wasn't redacted, apparently. The first decades of his early life were completely removed, the only fact remaining being that he was constructed cold in Praxus. The rest of the file lay untouched, including his decades of service in the Praxian law enforcement.

“Very interesting,” Optimus murmured to himself. The records were old, of course. There would be no finding the originals unless Praxus still retained them. But no need– a mech’s privacy was worth more than Optimus’s curiosity.

From Praxus, Prowl had gone to Iacon, working in mechaforensics for several hundred years. Casefiles were attached, but Optimus didn't open them.

Flicking back up to the top of Prowl’s file, Optimus looked at the picture provided. The mech inside the photo was of that ambiguous face which gives the impression of being neither old nor young. The aesthetic of his helm was similar to Smokescreen’s (perhaps because they were both constructed in Praxus) and the red chevron on his helm gave him an imposing silhouette. Optimus looked at the face carefully, consideringly.

He needed advice on this decision.

::Ironhide, I'd like your opinion on something.::

 

Prowl’s one comfort was that he was not the only mech on the shuttle to Iacon. There were a few other mecha onboard besides the pilot– one of Rubicon’s mechs, a couple of medics, and a few Urayans who were lucky enough to have friends who could get them on a shuttle to Iacon.

The commander at Uraya had been vague in the reasoning for sending Prowl out to Iacon. “You're wanted at Iacon. High command wants to see you,” was what he'd said.

Concerning, but at least Prowl was sure he wasn't being court-martialed.

The shuttle rattled as the pilot set her down, and Prowl grimaced faintly at the rough landing. A minute later the door clicked open, hissing slightly as the ramp lowered.

The Urayans left first in a brief rush, clustering like fish as they made their way out of the shuttlebay. The medics hovered uncertainly at the door for a moment before leaving. Rubicon’s mech had already slipped away with sure step.

Prowl exited the shuttle just behind the medics, glancing about for cues as to his next objective.

A bulky red mech met Prowl’s optic and gestured him over. Prowl obliged, doorwings tilted attentively.

“You're First Lieutenant Prowl?”

“Yes, sir.” Prowl inclined his helm respectfully.

The mech scoffed. “Right. I'm Major Ironhide. Come with me.”

Still no explanations for anything that was happening. Prowl felt a grimace twist his lips before he controlled himself, following obediently behind the ranking mech.

The halls of the Iacon base were no more unique than those in Uraya, yet to Prowl there seemed to be a lighter air to the place. A leftover sentiment from his youth, probably– the idea that new surroundings meant life would be better.

The route Ironhide took was fairly brief, and soon enough he stood before a door, his helm blocking Prowl’s view of the doorplate. Lifting a sturdy, worn fist, the Major gave the door three hard knocks, ignoring the access plate he could have pinged the occupant with. Prowl blinked.

“Come in,” the bot inside said, voice baritone and tickling some modicum of recognition in Prowl’s mind.

Ironhide breezed inside, and Prowl followed. For a moment Prowl was caught in his surprise, steps hitching for a second before he recovered. Behind him, the office door slid shut.

“Lieutenant Prowl, I'm Optimus Prime.” The mech behind the desk stood up and extended a servo. Prowl took a half step forward, shook the Prime’s servo, and quickly stepped back. The leader of the Autobot faction didn't seem perturbed by Prowl’s reticence, optics flashing a smile over his battlemask. “I understand if you may be somewhat confused by all this– it's not exactly regular to be promoted so suddenly.”

“Or to be greeted by the Prime upon arrival,” Ironhide grunted.

“Yes, that too.” Optimus sat down, gesturing to the chairs before his desk. “This won't take long, Lieutenant, I would simply like to speak with you. I like to speak to a mech before they're pulled into these sorts of roles.”

Prowl sat down primly, holding his wings carefully still as he processed this whole situation. ‘He's very different from the previous Prime,’ was one thought that flashed through Prowl’s mind.

“Of what would you like to speak, sir?” Prowl glanced at the red figure of Ironhide, who had remained standing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Only the reasons for your decision during the recent assault on Uraya. It is good of a mech to take initiative, but the chain of command is there for a reason.”

It had been a very long time since Prowl looked a Prime in the optic, but his spark still shivered with that same faint consertation. Optimus Prime had a very intent gaze, his cerulean optics set on Prowl’s, a heavy weight that Prowl knew he couldn't shake if he looked away. There was no maliciousness in the Prime’s optics, however, only mildness and curiosity.

“Zenith was unfit for duty,” Prowl said, as he had said to the commanders in Uraya. “He was compromised by his CO’s death, and was making consequent misjudgments in his tactical output.”

“Yes, that is what it said in the report. But, may I ask, why you? Why not have someone else take over? You were hardly the only senior tactician available– in fact, you weren't even in the department.”

“I did what I believed to be necessary, sir. I was the more capable of the tacticians available, and I had the initiative to take over when I realized that Zenith was not performing at his peak function.”

“I see.” Optimus Prime tilted his helm. “Do you believe you made the right decision?”

“I made the _correct_ decision, sir. Whether it is right is for the higher command to decide.”

The Prime seemed to smile behind his mask. “Indeed.” He turned his gaze down to his desk, shuffling through the datapads present there. “Your new position is as Captain under Commander Smokescreen in the Tactical division.” A large blue servo held out a datapad. “Feel free to inquire at the medbay to get your ranking glyphs modified.”

Prowl took the datapad. “Yes, sir.”

“Major Ironhide will direct you to where you can find where your quarters are located.”

“Yes, sir.” Prowl stood from his chair. The Prime gave that hidden smile again.

“Dismissed, Captain.”

 

“You have until alpha shift tomorrow to situate yourself, then you'll report to Commander Smokescreen at Tactical.” Security Director Red Alert said. “Your quarters are number Sigma-47– you may change the doorcode at your own discretion. The restricted rations and extended duty shifts applied by your previous posting are no longer valid unless requested by your CO.”

Prowl inclined his helm and accepted the datapad Red Alert handed him.

“Those are the regulations for the Iacon base. It would be preferable for you to become familiar with them.” Red Alert braced his jaw as though expecting protest, and Prowl glanced at the mech’s second in command, Inferno, who stood nearby. Inferno smiled ruefully and shrugged.

“Yes, sir,” Prowl said.

Red Alert nodded approvingly. “Very good.” He turned away, apparently to say nothing more. Prowl took it for the dismissal it was.

It was late at night, the beta shift a couple hours from ending. With little in mind besides energon and a small amount of exploration, Prowl pulled up the map Inferno had pinged him with as he left. A second later, Prowl had memorized it, and he set off for the nearest rec. room.

The rec. room wasn't too full, the quiet buzz of conversation lending an ambient background noise. Prowl made his way to the dispensers, accepting the cube the machine spit out after a couple seconds of pressing buttons.

Glancing about the room, Prowl debated whether or not to sit down and drink or find his room, drink, and crash. It had been a long day– travel always tired Prowl out, even if he was doing little more than sit in a shuttle.

Then Prowl caught sight of a familiar silver bot, sitting at a table with a few mecha gathered with him, telling some story that had them all chuckling.

“Are you fragging serious?” Prowl hissed to himself. Was _this_ where Jazz had been for the past two days?

Torn between fleeing the room and confronting the Decepticon, Prowl froze in place for a second too long. That blue visored gaze fell on him, and Jazz smiled, wide and sharp.

Turning stiffly on his heel, Prowl left the rec. room at a carefully measured pace. Jazz was beside him a few moments later.

“Fancy seein’ you here, Prowler! Been a bit, hasn't it?”

“You knew?” Prowl said. He directed his course towards the hall where his quarters were located.

Jazz hummed. “I'd guessed, love. Command tends to like it when a bot takes initiative like that. ‘S why they like me so much.”

“Is that why you encouraged me to do it?” Prowl turned into a stairwell, lengthening his stride to take the steps two at a time.

“Wasn't the only reason, no.”

Prowl frowned and changed the subject. “So what are you known as here?”

“Triaxial. Don't worry, mech, ain't no killing done this time around. Just a little addition to the records.” Jazz caught up in front of Prowl, taking the door the doorwinger had been about to open. “After you,” Jazz said, waving a servo as he held the door open.

Prowl slipped through the doorway, resisting the urge to kick Jazz as he passed him by.

“What is Triaxial’s function?”

“Jus’ a normal grunt. Mech’s lookin’ to get into Ops if he can, though. Thinks he's got the skills for it.” Jazz met Prowl’s optic and grinned, visor flickering in a wink.

Prowl’s lips twisted into a wry, momentary smile. “Of course.” He paused. “You had quite a gathering about you in the rec. room.”

“Mm, yeah. Was jus’ tellin’ ‘em a bit of a story. Lot of flashing lights an’ all that, y’know how it is. Gettin’ in with the ranks is key to every good op. I'm good at that.”

Prowl glanced at the door numbers as he passed them, counting down to his own. “Is this an op to you?”

Jazz laughed knowingly. “More than that, Prowler. I'm just treatin’ it like one.”

“You seem like the sort of mech who treats everything like it's something to fight or figure out.” Prowl paused outside the door marked Σ-47. He touched the access pad, typing in the default. The door clicked open.

“Y’sure that ain't you, mech?”

Prowl pinged the lights online. The room was bigger than his last one, but the same basic berth and desk set applied. A couple shelves were installed in the walls at an easy height.

“I know how I am.” Prowl set his cube of energon on the desk before turning to the berth, which sat in the center of the wall opposite the entrance. Setting his servos against the side, Prowl pushed the solid berth until it lay in the corner furthest from the door.

Jazz’s hum hit the perfect note to reverberate in the small room. “I know how I am too, love, but I'm here t’ learn about you, not me.” His visor bled from blue to red as he leaned against the doorjamb.

“The long game.”

Jazz nodded. “The long game.”

Prowl picked up the cube from the desk and sat down on the berth. He looked into it for a few seconds, tilting the container from side to side before finally draining it all in a few smooth gulps.

“You drink like it's gonna be your last, Prowler.”

White digits picked at the corners of the cube. “Don't read into it.”

But Jazz’s gaze had sharpened. He moved away from the doorway to lean against the desk. “Ain't nothin’ wrong with wantin’ enough to eat, mech. Primus knows I had my times goin’ hungry. Leaves somethin’ in ya that never really goes away.”

“I'm sure it does.”

“You wouldn't be one o’ those mechs, though, would you? Constructed in Praxus, set on the fast lane for your function. Lemme guess, it was… cop? Heh, yeah, cop.” Jazz rapped a sharp claw against the edge of the desk. “Never gone hungry in your life.”

“You must be right.” Prowl met Jazz’s gaze evenly. “I'm guessing you didn't get all that from my file?”

“I don't even got your file, mech. Thought it'd be cheating since you got nothin’ on me.”

“So it would be.” The doorwinger’s lips quirked at the corner. “I get the impression that you're the type to cheat.”

“Not in this, love. It'd take all the rush out of it.” Jazz tilted his helm. “So I'm betting you got a promotion, yeah? What are you now, a captain?”

For a moment Prowl felt a small amount of whiplash as the Decepticon changed the subject abruptly. “Captain, yes.” he said. After another couple seconds of fidgeting, Prowl put his empty energon cube in subspace.

“Haven't got the glyphs done yet, though.” Jazz nodded to the ranking glyphs on Prowl’s collar, still marking him as a lieutenant.

“You're very astute.”

Jazz laughed, nose wrinkling as he grinned. “Ahhh, you're a funny. But sure, I'll do the glyphs for you. I'm nice like that.”

Prowl hoped his surprise didn't show on his face. “I could easily get a medic to do it for me.”

“And miss out on a bonding moment?” Between one moment and the next Jazz had a knife in his hand, long and slender with a vibro edge. “I have a very steady hand, mech, don't worry.”

“I would rather not let you hold a knife to my throat.”

“Aww come on, Prowler. It'll bring us closer together.” Jazz pushed away from the desk, crossing the floor between them in a few silent steps. “It's like in the films, yeah? A moment of intimacy sparks the sudden flood of unresolved sexual tension in their relationship.” The silver Decepticon lowered himself to sit down beside Prowl, turning the knife between his digits.

Prowl held himself very still. His doorwings twitched. “I think that we have enough tension between us.”

“Ha! You're right about that.” Jazz gestured with the knife. “Could always use more, though. Can't say a knife never spiced things up in the berth.”

“No, Jazz.”

Jazz leaned in close, all but pressing his forehead to Prowl’s. “I don't think I've heard you say my name enough. It's ‘cause you don't want us to get caught, yeah? Heh, naughty.”

Prowl grimaced. “Enough of this, _Jazz_.” He paused. “This is a rather one-sided relationship, wouldn't you say? You've inferred quite a bit of information about me.”

“Didn't we have that talk about questions? Go ahead, ask away. I'll give you a freebie since you asked so nicely.” Jazz grinned. “And don't worry about balancing the scales, love. I'm sure it'll all work out.”

Ice blue optics bored into the red of Jazz’s visor. The silver bot’s grin widened.

“Why did you join the Decepticons?”

Jazz laughed shortly. “ _That's_ what you’re waste your freebie on? Thought you was gonna ask something more poignant, personal.” Prowl looked at him, and Jazz scoffed. “I joined up ‘cause then I got to kill as many mechs as I like without consequences. Plus, hey, getting a regular feeding was pretty nice.”

There was something more to it, Prowl could tell. But he wouldn't find out tonight. “You _would_ join a dedicated cause for something that petty.”

Prowl was learning more of Jazz with each conversation they had, no matter how unbalanced he felt both during and after. Jazz was more interested in Prowl’s past than Prowl was in Jazz’s; Prowl needed to know the Jazz here, now, not how he got there. Needed to know how to read him. Manipulate him. That was more important than the past, at least for now.

“Lotta mechs joined for the same reasons as me, Prowl.”

“I know.”

“Don't tell me you're an Autobot for some excessively noble reason.”

Black and white doorwings twitched. “I… joined the Autobots because I had no other choice.”

Jazz hummed, and tapped the tip of his knife against Prowl’s lips. Deactivated, the energy blade was only an inert piece of metal, albeit sharp. “That,” Jazz said, “is very, very insightful.”

“I'm sure it is.” Prowl reached up between them, turning the knife away with a finger. “Go away, Jazz. I want to recharge.”

“Well this is a familiar scenario.” Silver claws tapped at the armor of Prowl’s forearm. “I can keep you company.”

“Not tonight.”

Tilting his helm, Jazz smiled just slightly. “Okay. I know when it's time to retreat.” He stood up from the berth. “Pity I couldn't have done those glyphs for you. Woulda changed something, I'm sure. Like in the movies.”

Prowl let himself smile wryly. “Perhaps.”

“Mm. Sleep good, Prowler. Keep that knife I gave you close by.” Jazz stood and meandered to the door. “Can never be too careful.”

The room resounded with silence once Jazz was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did actual research on army and navy ranks for this, and I had a really hard time of it because people tend to smash those two categories together when giving ranks in Transformers fanfictions.  
> Comments give me life, and I really need feedback on this chapter


	5. Chapter 5

“I just remembered,” Jazz said, which meant he'd probably been waiting to say it for a while. “Zenith.”

“Yes, Zenith.” Prowl was absolutely done with being surprised when Jazz came up from nowhere to continue a conversation they'd never had.

“Mech’s TacHead at Uraya.”

“So he is, and he has been for several months.” Prowl waited for the bot ahead of him to finally take his energon before stepping up in line to register his own ration. Taking the cube, Prowl moved to a two-seat table towards the back of the room. Jazz beat him to the chairs, dropping into the one facing the majority of the rec. room. The energon in his cube sloshed but didn't spill.

With what he hoped was collected poise, Prowl lowered himself into the second chair. His doorwings to the room, Prowl could just about sense the movement of the many other mecha preparing for the alpha shift, but that didn't detract from the uncomfortable vulnerability of his exposed back.

“Woulda thought you'd, I dunno, report him? ‘S what y'all do, right? ‘Specially with you being' an ex-cop.” Jazz took a lazy sip from his cube, throwing one arm over the back of his chair and affecting a lazy slouch. More than one nearby mech cast the silver mech an appreciative glance. Prowl did not.

“I did not report him, as I'm sure you know.”

“Then what'd ya do? It's dangerous to have a mech with off-color sympathies in such a position of command, innit? You're welcome, by the way, for givin’ you that. Real altruistic of me.”

Prowl tapped at the side of his cube absently. “Zenith is aware that I know of his… off-color sympathies.” The datapads Jazz had given him as evidence were, to the best Prowl could find, authentic. Zenith’s reactions had proved them to be so. “That should keep him in check, for the most part. If not…” Black and white doorwings shrugged upwards. “Having someone like him in play is more useful than not,” Prowl concluded.

Jazz grinned over the rim of his cube. “Thought you said you hated politics.”

“It's blackmail, not politics, though I'll admit they often go hand in hand.” Prowl looked into his cube and, at last, took a sip. The energon slid down his throat and into his tank, unfulfilling and leaving him hungrier than before. Prowl carefully refrained from downing the whole cube.

“Mm, true. I've never been in the political scene myself, leastways not as a politician.” Jazz drank from his cube again. “I've probably done some such thing for some such politician though, I'm sure. Those parasites are always looking for a proxy to keep their own servos clean.”

“You don't remember if you ever have?” Prowl’s wings twitched.

Jazz lowered his cube. It dangled from his claws, just over the tabletop. He stared at Prowl for a moment. “Things start sliding together after a long enough time. Memory fadin’ ‘n such. Not uncommon for mecha ‘round my age.”

Curiosity hedged at Prowl’s processor. “How old _are_ you?” he asked. It wasn't a question that had ever come to mind before. Age is largely irrelevant to such a long lived race as the Transformers.

“A whole lot older than I look.” Jazz’s lips twisted into a self-satisfied smirk. “Couldn't tell you a number, though, ‘s been too long since I wasted time trying to figure out the specifics.”

“I see,” was all Prowl had to say.

“This is the part where you ask some inane question like, ‘what's your secret? How'd you live so long?’ and I say something like, ‘I eat an entire turborat every day and smoke cygars until my vents clog up– thus is the secret to my youthful appearance and longevity.’” Jazz laughed, lifting his cube up to his lips and downing a mouthful.

Prowl ran a digit along the rim of his cube. “What will you do if the war ends?”

For a moment Jazz actually looked surprised. He recovered quickly. “I distinctly notice that you said ‘if’ and not ‘when’,” he said pointedly. Prowl looked at Jazz steadily. The Decepticon scoffed. “I'd carry on. Keep goin’. Sow chaos and discord in my wake. Join up on the next big war so I can kill some more.”

Prowl nodded slowly; it was not an unexpected reply.

“And you?” Jazz tilted his helm. “What'll you do? Become a cop again? Law enforcement seems like your kinda gig.”

“It should be, I was made for it.” Prowl flashed a small, brief smirk. He stared into his cube for a moment before raising it to his lips and draining the energon inside. “I have a duty shift to get to, and I'm sure you do too.” Prowl pushed his chair back and stood.

“Triaxial always shows up for his shifts, love. The logs confirm it.” Jazz winked and didn't move from his chair.

Prowl left the rec. room at a suitably brisk pace which brought him to the Tactical department almost exactly when his shift began. The room carried a haphazard mix of weary gamma shift mecha and more fresh-eyed alpha shift bots.

Smokescreen stepped out of his office, datapad in servo and a look of concentration on his face. Looking up, he caught sight of Prowl.

“Ah, good.” The TacHead made his way over to the terminal Prowl usually worked at. “Prowl, I was hoping to have you set down the skeleton for a planning an attack on an outpost we’ve discovered.” He held out the datapad. “You’ll have to account for an infiltration as well– Stormset wants to see if they've got any useful intelligence.”

“Very well, sir.” Prowl accepted the datapad and sat at his terminal.

After over five months under Smokescreen, Prowl was finding that he liked the mech better than Haloid. There were times, of course, when Smokescreen seemed rather awkward, but he was a natural leader, however inexperienced.

Prowl turned on the datapad, checking the mission parameters he was expected to accomplish. Capture, not destruction, of the outpost (if possible). Retrieval of all useable intelligence. Leave the outpost capable of Autobot utilization (if possible). Prowl also found the amount and general profiles of mecha that would be carrying out the mission. The rest of the data on the pad was what he would need to create a general formation for the attack.

Plugging the datapad into the terminal, Prowl drew out his hardline and connected to the terminal himself. Data flowed through him, and Prowl fell into it.

 

By the end of his shift Prowl had finished his work. Handing the framework over to another tactician on the next shift for review, Prowl left the Tacticial department.

With his tanks sitting at 37%, Prowl set off for the rec. room, as he did every day he took the alpha shift. As he walked, his processor worked over the strategy he'd just finished, chewing over the details, following the petro-rabbit trails of possibilities.

Caught up in his thoughts, Prowl very nearly ran into a mech as he rounded a corner. They both halted and reared back, apologies coming automatically.

“Sorry,” Prowl said, doorwings flicking downward as he inclined his helm. His gaze flicked up, and Prowl felt surprise encompass his expression. “Barricade?”

The other Praxian let out a short, surprised laugh. “Prowl! It's been a long time.” He clasped Prowl’s arms. “I didn't realize you were in Iacon!”

A small smile began to spread across Prowl’s face as he replied, “I’ve only been here a few months. But you! I didn't think… ah, that is–”

“You thought I'd be a ‘con.” Barricade smirked.

“Yes.” Prowl shrugged sheepishly. His once-mentor had always been clear about his opinion of Functionism and the Senate’s role in it. Pit, Barricade had been all but singing Megatron’s praises in the years between the beginning of Megatron’s rise and Prowl’s leaving the Praxus.

“Well, I'm clearly not.” Barricade tapped the red insignia on his dark chestplates. “As for you– I was absolutely certain you'd be a neutral. You never did like the whole deal between Megatron and the Senate.” That old, disappointed accusation flickered in the senior mech’s gaze.

Prowl bit the inside of his lip. “Ah, well…”

Barricade’s smile softened, sympathy sparking in his amber optics. “You tried.”

Prowl looked away. “I tried. We crashed over the Manganese Mountains– shot down. We never knew which faction did it.” His lips twitched into a bitter frown before Prowl cleared it away. “I came back.” And Prowl had hated that knowing smile on _**his**_ face when Prowl did.

(Memory flickered, but Prowl would not let himself know the name or see the face. Only blue optics filtered through his gates, and golden plating, and a quiet fear in Prowl’s own spark.)

“I see.”

The black and white mech shook his helm. “It doesn’t matter now.” He gave the other a small smile. “I was on my way to get energon, would you like to join me?”

“Of course.” Barricade slung a heavy arm over Prowl’s shoulders, pulling him along the path the tactician been taking. Prowl relaxed into the familiar touch– Barricade had always been tactile. Prowl’d learned to deal with it before long (he'd never admit that he almost liked it; the first time someone had touched him without hurting him had been Barricade. Prowl would always remember that).

They walked the route together, Barricade extolling on the details of the mission that'd kept him away from base when Prowl’d arrived; helping to escort a couple of scientists to Tyger Pax, guard them while they were there, then escort them back.

“And there was this one mech, Wheeljack– absolute madmech.” Barricade gesticulated with his servos las they entered the rec. room. “He had more Bunsen burners than I've ever seen in one place, and he was always just mixing things together. The other one –Trecent, I think– he was always saying that Wheeljack was going to blow himself up one day.”

“Exciting,” Prowl said drily, stepping up to the energon dispenser and taking a cube.

“One of the more exciting escort missions, I can tell you that.” Barricade stepped up behind Prowl, taking a cube of his own from the dispenser. With one servo on Prowl’s elbow, the older mech guided him to a table. “So tell me, how are things for you? It's been well over half a million years since I last saw you.”

“Things are good, I suppose.” Prowl pulled out a chair and sat down.

“And now were things?” Barricade sat opposite Prowl, bracing his forearms on the table. “Any big events happen between then and now? Conjux? Murder attempt?”

Prowl allowed a small smile. “Nothing too exciting,” he said. “And nothing I'd care to reiterate to you.”

“Of course.” Barricade huffed out a short laugh. “Reticent as ever. I'm glad to see you haven't changed too much.”

“I think I've changed more than you think.”

“So have I, though I'm not sure if it's for the better.” Barricade brought his cube up to his mouth and drank.

Prowl stared at the surface of the table, lost in thought. “It's rather hard to tell in the moment, I suppose,” he murmured, more to himself than Barricade. “Hindsight is always clearest.”

“True,” Barricade replied, his gaze running absently across the room. “It's difficult to see–” he paused for a moment, his gaze catching on something over Prowl’s shoulder. “To see change as it's happening.” He looked at Prowl. “But once it's done, you realize that you were always meant to be this way.”

“Perhaps.” Prowl chewed on his lower lip, quickly losing himself to the ambiguous train of thought. Then a set of servos clasped his shoulders, and Prowl all but jumped out of his plating.

“Prowl! Glad you see you chatting with someone.” Jazz dropped into one of the remaining chairs perpendicular to Prowl’s. Turned to Barricade, he stuck out his servo. “Pleased to meetcha, I'm Triaxial.” The grin he wore was bright and wide, sincere in every way. Still, Prowl saw a hard glint in his visor.

“Barricade.” The black and purple mech shook Jazz’s servo. “You're a friend of Prowl’s?” The small smiles he'd given Prowl were gone, replaced by polite interest. Prowl looked at his old friend, and saw something cold flicker in his gaze.

“Sure am. What's your relation to him? I was under the impression he doesn't have any friends besides me.” Jazz slouched in his chair, taking up space like he owned it.

Barricade glanced at Prowl, who shrugged and nodded. “I was his mentor, back when he first joined the Praxian police force.”

“Really? How interesting.” Jazz glanced at Prowl. “So you've practically known him from the Forge.”

“You could say that.” Narrow black doorwings waved in a shrug.

Prowl looked between them –at Jazz’s wide smirk and Barricade’s standoffish expression– and downed his cube of energon. “Right,” he said, standing up from his chair. “I'm going to the firing range.”

Barricade made to stand, mouth opening, but Jazz stopped him with a friendly clap on the shoulder.

“Wait mech, I got a few questions for you. Primus knows I could use a few stories of youngling Prowl,” Jazz laughed. “Carry on Prowler, we’ll catch up later.”

“Take your time.” Prowl rolled his optics. Flashing a brief half-smile to Barricade, Prowl turned and left the rec. room.

Barricade found him some time later. Prowl stood in a bracing crouch, rifle against his shoulder. Each shot he fired hit where he wanted it to go– the heads or sparks of the simple, moving holograms.

“How long have you known Triaxial?” Barricade asked, leaning against the wall of Prowl’s stall.

“Almost seven months, by now.” Prowl took out two holograms with a single shot as they overlapped for barely a moment. Triumph glowed in his spark for a moment.

“How'd you meet?”

Prowl turned his sights on a heavy tanker, aiming for the joints. “Assault mission on a Decepticon outpost. He pulled me to safety when I was injured.”

Barricade grunted in acknowledgment. “I wouldn't have thought you'd make a friend like that mech.”

“We’re not quite friends,” Prowl said. The heavy tanker went down, hologram flickering away. “He's very persistent, though.”

“I see.”

Prowl lowered his rifle as the simulation ended. With practiced movements, he removed the cartridge clip and replaced it. “Why all the questions?” He straightened and reached for the console that controlled his firing stall’s simulation displays. With a few clicks, he started up a new one; a sniper sim, this time.

Barricade was silent for a moment. “I don't know,” he said at last. “He just rubs my plating the wrong way.”

“Well, don't worry about my relationship with him.” Prowl crouched down and set his rifle against his shoulder, scanning the virtual battlefield. “I have it all under control.”

“...I'm sure you do.” Barricade sighed. “Care for a competition? It's been a while since I tried my hand at sniping.”

“Sure.” Prowl glanced up long enough to smirk. “I'll win.”

“Ha! We’ll see.”

Prowl paused his sim and waited for Barricade to settle in the next stall so they could sync simulations. As they started up, friendly banter coming from both sides, Prowl ignored the tickle of uncertainty that weighed at his processor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made some edits to the previous chapters concerning time units; I will now use entirely human time units for the sake of clarity rather than the odd mix I used before. The only thing perhaps worth reading again is the paragraph where Optimus checks Prowl's file in chapter 4, as the information there has been altered somewhat.
> 
> As always, comments are my life and without a beta I really need feedback.


	6. Chapter 6

“Prowl,” Smokescreen said, reaching the other mech’s terminal. “Change of plans on that mission I gave you this morning. Socket’s team is gonna take a different mission, so you'll have to tailor it to Ironside’s team instead.” The TacHead set a datapad on Prowl’s terminal. “Nothing else has changed, though. You'll still be field tac.”

“May I ask why the selected team changed?” Prowl plugged the datapad into his terminal, taking in the new team he would have to account for.

“Ironside and his usual mechs are better at this sort of thing, but they just got back about a week ago.”

“I see.” Prowl ignored the TacHead’s departure, focusing instead on the team profiles. Ironside, Axel, Argon, Copperset, Gasket, Barricade… Triaxial. Ire rose in Prowl’s chest as he opened Triaxial’s file. Jazz’s face grinned from Prowl’s HUD, and the file stated that he'd been transferred to Ironside’s unit four days ago.

Prowl’s lips twitched into a grimace as he dismissed the file from his HUD. Of course Jazz would transfer to Barricade’s unit barely three days after meeting him– the mech seemed obsessed with anything in connection to Prowl.

Irritation gave way to processing, and Prowl shelved his thoughts of Jazz in order to do his work.

This was another assault on an outpost, but first they would send in a mech for proper intel– being onsite, Prowl could then alter the frame strategy as needed before they really began the mission. Looking over the team’s mecha, Prowl finally chose Barricade to be the infiltrator; the data gave Barricade a 78% chance of success, and while Jazz did have a 98.6% chance of success should Prowl apply him, Prowl did not want to put the whole mission into the hands of a fickle Decepticon saboteur.

The end of his shift came quickly with work to do. Prowl hadn't quite finished with his assigned project, but all the data was stored in his processor. Prowl assigned the project to a tertiary processing stream– hopefully he could have it done before gamma shift was begun, so he could submit it for peer review.

Collecting a spare datapad on which to later put his finished framework, Prowl left the Tacticial department.

“You don't like Barricade.” Prowl said as Jazz drew abreast to him. Prowl redid the route to the rec. room in his processor; his new path would take him through the less walked hallways.

“No ‘hello’?” Jazz grinned. Prowl looked at him. “Okay, so I don't. But I don't like anyone.”

“You consider him a threat.” Prowl elaborated, studying the Decepticon carefully.

“Everyone’s a threat.”

Prowl pursed his lips. “I see how you treat everyone. You treat Barricade differently.”

Jazz smirked. “How so?”

“You let yourself show. You let your Triaxial face drop just enough to see you.”

The silver mech stopped, forcing Prowl to halt as well. They stood there, facing each other in the empty hallway, temporarily untouched by traffic.

“Tell me why that is, Prowl.” Jazz stared at the doorwinger, blue visor bright with intensity. His lips parted in an expectant half-grin, and the lines of his frame exuded both curiosity and danger.

Prowl stared back at Jazz. He let the moment stretch on, though he knew the answer.

“Because of his connection to me.”

Jazz spread his servos, brows rising. “He's a resource. You've seen how I treat resources.”

“I have. It's not because he's a resource.” Prowl paused, considering his next words. “It's because you consider him a threat to me. To your… _possessing_ me.”

A slow grin spread across the Decepticon’s face. “Very good, Prowler.” He took a step forward, bringing himself well into Prowl’s personal space. “You are very correct. And yet… you are also probably very wrong.”

Standing so near, Prowl was reminded of the height that the Decepticon held over him, though their respective masses were likely the same due to Prowl’s greater bulk. “Explain.”

Jazz looked almost indulgent as he said, “It's been a long time since you last saw your mentor, mech. You don't know what he's been up to in all that time.”

“And you do?”

“I know a lot of things.”

Prowl shook his helm, turning on his heel to carry on. A servo lashed out, gripping his elbow and halting him in his tracks.

“I'm not one for spoilers, love,” Jazz said, voice serious. “But I'll give you somethin’ of a hint; Barricade’s eventually gonna ask you a very important question, and you're very probably gonna say no.”

Prowl glanced over his shoulder at the Decepticon, who wore an uncharacteristically sober expression. “Right,” Prowl said, filing Jazz’s words away. “Well,” Prowl shook away Jazz’s hold and carried on briskly. “I hope it's not a conjux request.”

“Ha! A joke. You're fraggin’ hilarious.”

Energon was acquired, and Jazz promptly vanished from Prowl’s sight to wherever he went when he wasn't bothering Prowl.

Prowl chose a two seat table in the corner and lowered himself into the chair facing the room. Forcing himself to take only sips of his energon, Prowl let the tactical process from his work come to the forefront of his mind.

Minutes passed, but Prowl wasn't counting, to busy with the numbers and data that raced through his processors. He'd finished his cube at some point but didn't get up, staring out blindly into the room as he occupied himself with his thoughts.

“You've been staring at Steamer for the past ten minutes with this really intense expression on your face. I think you're scaring the mech.” Barricade broke into Prowl’s field of vision, sitting down in the empty chair across from him. “Where's Triaxial? I get the impression he's around you a lot.”

“Really? Well I'm sure you've been spending time with him too, since he transferred to your unit.” Passive aggressiveness was something Prowl hated in others but used all too often himself, and a habit that he'd probably never break if he didn't actually try.

Barricade had the audacity to look surprised. “He didn't tell you?”

“No, and you didn't either.” Prowl set the tactical process aside in a secondary thread. “I'm not saying I have to know everything you two do in relation to one another, but I think the fact that you are now in the same unit would have been nice to know.”

“You think we’ll go at eachother like cybercats.” Barricade, as always, irritatingly perceptive.

Prowl shrugged unapologetically. “You don't like him, and he doesn't like you.”

“Yeah, I get that impression. Mech’s pretty friendly, but I can tell he doesn't think much of me.”

Oh Jazz probably thought quite a lot of Barricade. Simply in a negative context. “Somewhat, yes.” Prowl pursed his lips. “You've been told of the upcoming mission, yes?”

“Yeah, Ironside told us about it in the middle of alpha shift.” Barricade scoffed. “Short notice. We’ve only been back a week.”

“Yours wasn't a high tension mission, you're all of you cleared for a field mission.” Prowl ran a digit over a shallow dent in the table. “It's fairly routine, but I'll be onsite to ensure nothing goes wrong.”

Barricade’s optics flashed with surprise. Something else flickered underneath. “We don't need a caretaker.”

“I'm sure you don't; I believe Smokescreen is assessing my performance as a field tactician.” The dent was .35 centimeters deep, .80 centimeters across, and 1.3 centimeters wide. Prowl studied its shape, and decided it to be rather optic-like. “Since I am a more than adequate tactician, all should go well, provided my orders are followed.”

“Everything will go just fine, Prowl. I'll make sure of it myself if I have you.”

Prowl flashed a smile at the other mech even as he rolled his optics. “Thanks.”

Barricade huffed out a short laugh. “Heh, yeah,” he met Prowl’s gaze. “Anything for you, kid.”

 

It was nine days after Prowl finished the strategy that the mission was actually begun. The transport took them most of the way, but a good part of the mission was set on stealth, and shuttles carrying over half a dozen mecha isn't very subtle.

It was good to work his engine, though. The public tracks at the Iacon base couldn't hold up to Cybertron’s natural terrain.

Three hours’ drive to the Decepticon outpost. Axel drove a short distance ahead as scout, but so far he'd reported nothing out of the ordinary.

::This is exciting, innit? Finally gonna see you in action again.:: Jazz drove up to Prowl’s side, his sleek speedster’s altmode striking a contrast against Prowl’s own pursuit alt. ::So, ah, I noticed you havin’ bad cop over there doin’ recon? What's up with that?::

::He's the best for it.::

::Excuse you, I’m the best for it.::

Prowl huffed. ::From what his file says, Triaxial doesn't have enough field experience in recon infiltration.::

::Really, mech? You gonna play it that way?::

::I am going to utilize Triaxial to the best of his abilities.::

Jazz laughed, the sound doubled between the comm. link and Prowl’s audio feed. ::That's cold, mech. But really, I could do better. Tell me the numbers, I know you got ‘em.::

::That would only serve to stroke your over-inflated ego.::

::So you admit they're higher than his.::

Prowl would have winced had he been in bipedal mode. ::Yes, and that's all I'll say on the matter.::

::Mmmhm.:: Jazz swerved closer, enough for Prowl to feel the prickling of the other’s EM field against his side. ::I'm in the nineties, ain't I.::

::Perhaps:: If something of a smile leaked into Prowl’s voice, neither of them chose to acknowledge it.

Then the outpost was in scanner range, and Ironside ordered for radio silence. They gathered at the base of a nearby hill, a rise of rough-edged stone creating an easy visual barrier. Prowl made sure that everyone knew their role in the upcoming plan: recon, assault, plant charges, blow the outpost up.

Barricade went in.

Barricade came out.

And then everything went wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, I'm aware, the most poorly written chapter of this fic, save perhaps the first chapter (which I do plan to rewrite). It's also short, and that's because I just really really wanted to get on to the next chapter which will hopefully be much better  
> I've been told that the name Ironside is too similar to Ironhide but I assure you, it was not a typo  
> Comments are gold, and kudos are silver. Please comment.


	7. Chapter 7

Prowl couldn't help but gasp in pain as he was roughly shoved into a cell. Struggling to keep his pedes, Prowl leant heavily against the stained walls. Someone followed after him, and then the energy barrier went up with a buzz.

“Primus damnit.” Prowl scraped down the wall until he slumped on the floor, all but huddled in the corner. His wing ached from the shot it had taken, and his thigh bore a wound that wouldn't be too serious if he could just get some temp plating on it.

“You doin’ okay, Prowler?”

Prowl hissed out another swear and turned a baleful glare on the silver Decepticon. “A lot of help _you_ were,” Prowl spat.

Jazz shrugged. “Triaxial don't got the best of training, mech. ‘S why you didn't let him do recon.”

“Ugh.” In too much pain to bother arguing, Prowl pulled a first aid kit from his subspace. With steady servos, he opened the kit and pulled out a patch of temp plating. Fitting the grey metal over the leaking wound in his thigh, Prowl pulled out the welder.

“Well, damn.” Jazz had sat back against the opposite corner, just beside the energy field trapping them inside the cell. He had a forearm propped on the bend of his knee, looking for all the world like he wasn't in a Decepticon holding cell. “You gonna do that yourself?”

“I don't imagine _you_ doing it.” Flicking on the welder, Prowl set the narrow heat against the line of the temp plating. The pain wasn't excruciating by a long shot, but as far as experiences went Prowl would rather not have had it. By the time he was done, his ventilations were ragged, and his servos shook with stress.

His doorwings shivered, and pain lanced down Prowl’s spine. He glanced over his shoulder, though self diagnostics had already informed him of the damage.

A hole, shot right through his doorwing. The only reason Prowl wasn't in complete agony was because he'd shut off all sensory input from that wing. Of course, there were safeguards against not feeling what was wrong with one’s body. Inconvenient, but inescapable.

Prowl watched the sparks for a moment, the torn wires and slowly dripping energon. His system was already working to close the energon leaks, but the hole would have to be patched before exposure made everything worse.

Offlining his optics, Prowl heaved a heavy sigh. When he opened them, he met Jazz’s smirk and knowing gaze.

“Need some help, love?”

“Yes.” Prowl's pride stung, but his wing hurt more. He scooted over the floor, and Jazz met him in the middle. Giving the Decepticon a piece of temp plating and the welder, Prowl turned his injured side to the mech, angling his doorwing as best he could.

The first touch sparked pain, harsh and jagged, and Prowl bit his lip to keep back a gasp. This was almost worse than the time he'd dislocated his doorwing.

Jazz had done the front of the wing and was on the back side when he said, “So what happened out there?”

“I don't know.” Prowl said. “I don't know, it just– everything went wrong.”

“How?” Jazz was doing quick work on Prowl’s wing. He probably could have been a good medic with such steady servos. Prowl almost laughed at the thought– hysterical, stressed laughter. His spark leapt in his throat.

“I don't know.”

Jazz pinched the tip of Prowl’s doorwing. “Yes, you do.”

Prowl stared at the wall in stubborn silence. The wall was cracked, perhaps from a few punches. Certainly seemed that way, with the poorly cleaned energon still staining the wall. Prowl counted the cracks by angle– vertical, horizontal, acute angle, obtuse angle. Then he counted them by length, then width. By the time that was over with, his spark had stopped racing and Jazz had finished with his wing.

“Thank you.” Prowl said, reclaiming his first aid materials and packing them away to subspace.

“No problem.” Jazz leaned into Prowl’s field of vision. His visor was still blue. “He's gonna come talk to ya, Prowl. Prepare yourself for it.”

Prowl looked away. Jazz grabbed his arm in a vice grip.

“Don't get stuck in denial, it looks ugly on you.” Jazz’s upper lip curled into a sneer. “Stop wallowing and put that processor to work if you want to keep makin’ your own choices. Mech’s an interrogator. He knows how to get into others’ processors.”

“You knew.” Prowl should have known. He had known. It's why he felt more empty than hurt.

The silver mech shrugged. “I knew.”

“Jazz was actually one of my preliminary trainers,” said Barricade, interrupting whatever words Prowl may have thrown at Jazz.

Prowl refused to turn around, even as the energy barrier buzzed and separated into bars.

“He left the program before long, however,” Barricade continued. “Always had something else to do. Taught me the basics, though. And here I am.”

Prowl couldn't help but turn. Barricade stood with his arms crossed over his chest, stance languid. His optics had changed from that familiar amber to bright red. A purple badge sat on his chest.

“Here you are.” Prowl said, voice flat.

“Come here.” Barricade flicked his digits, gesturing Prowl forward. Prowl remained where he sat, glaring coldly at the black Decepticon. “ _Come here_ , Prowl.”

Pushing himself to his pedes, ignoring the ache in his thigh, Prowl stepped over to the bars. His spark shivered in his chest, echoed by the barely perceptible vibration of his wings.

“You want me to defect.”

Barricade nodded. “It would be for the best.”

“Not for the Autobots.”

“It would be best for _you_.” Barricade’s optics flickered with something sad and soft.

Prowl lifted his chin. “Would it really?”

“Of course.” The black helm tilted to the side. “You're important, Prowl. Still rising through the ranks, but I know that you will be very important to this war. And you need to decide who you're going to fight for.”

“I already have.”

Barricade sneered. “You'd give your talents to the faction that the _Senate_ spawned? The Autobots were created to inhibit the revolution of forward progress. We Decepticons, under Megatron, we will give Cybertron a new society– a better one.”

Prowl shut his optics for a moment (just a moment). “I've made my choice, Barricade.”

Anger flashed across the older mech’s face. “Your choice was _taken_ from you!” His arms uncrossed, servos clenching at his sides. “The Senate _stole_ it, with their damn Functionism, their fragging ‘to each as he's made’.” He bared his teeth in a snarl. “Do you not remember? Because I do.”

Prowl shook his helm. Not here. Not with Jazz listening. Not when Prowl tried so hard to forget.

“I remember a frightened newbuild.” Barricade’s voice grew soft, but his words were no less sharp. “Poked, prodded, and tested since he first came online because he was _wrong_. He wasn't how they made him to be– too intelligent, too _different_. I remember a young mech, first time out in the real world, scared touch, scared of speaking– scared of going hungry.” Red optics glittered, but Prowl couldn't tell what was behind them. “I remember what the Senate –what the _Council_ – did to you, Prowl. And so do you.”

“The Autobots aren't the Senate. Not anymore.”

“They were when you joined up– Autobot Security Services, workin’ to enforce the Senate’s law.”

Prowl shook his helm, blinking with surprise. “I wanted to–”

“What, fix things from the inside? And how did _that_ go? Did you succeed?– or did Prime drag you down with him.” Barricade scoffed at Prowl’s shock. “You think I didn't keep tabs on you after you left? I looked out for you. I made sure you were safe. And then you joined the Autobots.” Barricade shook his helm, laughing ruefully. “Worst decision you could have made, kiddo. ‘Cause then you became a threat– to me and to my faction.”

Prowl could read the progression. “So you took a deep cover mission.”

Barricade smiled. “Clever kid. Yeah, I did.”

“Just to find me.”

“That was my primary goal, yes.”

The black and white mech shook his helm slowly. Confusion clouded his mind. “Why? I don't understand.”

A servo reached through the bars. Prowl didn't flinch when it touched him, a familiar claw grazing his cheek. “Because I'm your caretaker. I've been looking out for you since you came under my charge and I will do so for as long as I can.”

Prowl frowned, a distant confusion pulling his gaze to Barricade’s for a brief moment. “You aren't my caretaker– cold constructs don't have caretakers.”

“Another menace of the Senate.” Barricade scoffed. “Doesn't matter what the file papers said, that's what I am. And that's why I need you on the right side. At _my_ side.” His optics softened from the hardness they'd taken on. “I just want to keep you safe, Prowl.”

Prowl didn't turn his face into the touch, nor did he turn away. “I've chosen my course, Barricade, and I will not change it.”

“So stubborn.” The Decepticon’s lips turned in a cold, knowing smirk. “So desperate to have something to dedicate yourself to. Advanced processors, logical mind– yet illogically clinging to that which gives you meaning. You would go to any lengths to serve the cause you've chosen, be it justice, the Senate, the Autobots…”

“So why are you trying to change my mind?”

“You are fiercely loyal, Prowl, to anything that you choose. But you're also pragmatic. You have to see that if the war continues as it has, it won't be over for millennia. The Autobots and the Decepticons are almost evenly matched. They'll batter at one another for eternity, neither gaining the upper hand for enough time to make a difference. But with _you_ …” Barricade’s thumb rasped over the arch Prowl’s cheek. “You're the best in your field, Prowl. With you, the Decepticons could end the war before it goes too far. And that's what you want, isn't it? For this war to end, for the fighting to stop. You could do that. You just have to make the right choice.”

Prowl stared blankly at the purple badge on Barricade’s chest. His processor buzzed, running the numbers, grasping to make incomplete projections. He could neither confirm nor deny Barricade’s words, not with so little information.

“I have chosen the cause I will serve,” Prowl said softly. “I will stand by it.”

“Primus–” Anger flashed in Barricade’s optics, and then his servo seized Prowl’s throat. Prowl gasped, grimacing as the energon flow to his helm began to slow beneath the Decepticon’s tight grip. Distantly, he heard Jazz rise to his pedes. Barricade stared into Prowl’s optics as his hold tightened, and tightened…

Prowl stumbled back when his neck was released, gasping. The energon-deprived haze in his processors began to clear, but a touch to his throat revealed painful dents and a few broken lines, thankfully minor.

Prowl stared up at his mentor in shock as some part of his spark shattered.

“Okay, Prowl. Alright.” Barricade stepped back. “You've made your choice.” His gaze, hard and distant, turned to Jazz. “I'll be reporting your presence in Iacon. Command isn't pleased with you.”

Jazz stood like a predator ready to pounce. His visor shone red. “I'm sure they aren't.” His helm tilted to the side. “Off you go now. You didn't get what you want.”

Barricade stood there for a moment longer. Then he turned and left, the energy bars reverting to a barrier in his absence.

Prowl turned from the cell barrier and walked to the furthest corner. Lowering himself to the ground, Prowl braced his helm on the wall, wings to the room.

“Should I ask my questions now?– or later.” Jazz sat in the opposite corner from the entrance. His visor had returned to blue.

“Never.” Prowl pressed his servos to his chest as though he could soothe the throbbing agony in his spark. Clenching his jaw, Prowl forced himself not to claw at his own face in an attempt to push his pain outward. A scream rose in his throat, but Prowl held it back.

“Later, then.” Jazz arranged himself into a comfortable position, leaning his helm back against the wall, visor dark. “Settle in, Prowler. I'll have us out by night shift.”

 

Prowl lurched into wakefulness when his doorwing sensors detected an EM field close to touching him. Spinning around, ignoring the pain of his wings scraping against the wall, Prowl lashed out with the knife he held in his servo.

Jazz grabbed Prowl’s wrist before it could cut his throat, and laughed. “Good t’see you still got that knife I gave ya.” Jazz pulled the other mech to his pedes, casting a cursory glance over his frame. “C’mon, we’re leavin’.”

Prowl followed the Decepticon out of the cell, stepping over the fallen guard. “How'd you get him to open the barrier?”

“Promised him a good ‘face.” Jazz winked. Prowl frowned. “Jus’ kiddin’– I promised t’ give up Autobot intel; Triaxial’s good, but in the face of imminent torture he's a little weak.”

Reaching the end of the hall, Prowl paused in the doorway. “Wait! The others.” Prowl turned to go back. Jazz grabbed his elbow and pulled him along.

“They're dead, Prowl. Escapin’ with two mechs is easier than with six.”

Prowl pulled back on Jazz’s grasp, bringing them to a standstill. The Decepticon turned an irritated gaze on the Autobot.

“ _What_ ,” Jazz snapped.

“Tell me you didn't kill them,” Prowl hissed urgently.

Jazz snorted. “Alright then, I didn't.” He carried on, dragging Prowl behind, the other too surprised to resist.

“Wha– Jazz!” Prowl’s voice rose before he could control it. “Why– Primus damnit why the frag would y–”

“Shut the _frag_ up.” Jazz shoved Prowl up against the wall, covering his mouth with a heavy servo. His claws drew thin marks in the delicate protoform of the Autobot’s face. “D’you _want_ to get out of here? Or cry over a few mechs you didn't even _know_ , huh?”

Prowl stared coldly at the Decepticon, lax beneath his servos.

“I get that findin’ out your mentor is a ‘con, and maybe a little obsessed with ya, is fraggin’ y’up right now. But unless you wanna get caught, thoroughly interrogated, and then killed, you gotta get yourself the frag together. ‘Cause me? I could just walk outta here easy on my own, or Pit I could just tell these mechs who I am! Your survival is dependent on _my good will_.” Jazz’s visor glowed harshly, teeth bared in a snarl. “Now _nod_ if you will comply with my orders.”

After a long moment, Prowl nodded. Jazz pulled back.

“Good mech. Now get out your blaster. And remind me to teach you how to use that knife when we get back to Iacon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love using italics in high tension situations
> 
> I've been waiting to post this chapter since it wrote it, so,, I need feedback please.. . comments are the most wonderful thing and I really want to know what you guys think of this chapter


	8. Chapter 8

“Don't shoot unless I tell you to,” Jazz ordered, pointing a sharp claw at Prowl’s face. “I take point, an’ _I_ take down any mechs we come into contact with. Do not engage unless directly attacked.”

Prowl blinked and tilted his head. “You're rather protective,” he stated as he pulled his blaster from subspace (at least the Decepticons hadn't confiscated any of their belongings before putting them in the cells).

Jazz huffed, smirking. “I like to keep my Autobot tacticians in good shape, now come on.” He turned on his heel, and Prowl hurried to follow.

“I've placed those charges you gave me at key points of the building,” Jazz said as he led the way down the hall. “When we get out, I'll activate ‘em. Or maybe you could do it, I might let’cha.”

“How did you have time for it?” Prowl asked, confusion turning his lips to a frown– or rather, deepening the frown already present. “And why didn't you wake me to help you?”

Jazz glanced over his shoulder and smirked. “Was easier on my own, mech. ‘Sides, you looked like you needed the reprieve.” Then he grabbed the mech coming around the corner in a headlock, thrusting a blade into the bot’s spark before he even had a chance to gasp. The Decepticon went grey, and Jazz dropped the corpse. “It'll take them maybe five minutes to figure out I set all the cameras on loop.”

Prowl kept close to the silver grounder, doorwings twitching as they engaged all possible data.

“Two mech patrol coming close,” he murmured.

“I know, love.” Jazz grinned and gestured to his horns. “You ain't the only one with fancy sensors. Gotta say, though, yours’d be excellent for this kinda work.”

“They're a liability. I'm sure you’ve noticed that I currently have a hole in one wing.”

Jazz shrugged, settling into a ready stance as their path took them closer to the patrol. “Nothing some good training wouldn't fix, mech. Everything’s a liability unless you know how to use it right.”

The two Decepticons passed through the intersection, and Jazz pounced. The first mech went down in less than half a second, choking on the energon pouring from his throat. The next mech died after seven seconds, a lucky blow giving him an extra two seconds of life before Jazz stabbed him in the back of the helm with a knife still dripping with his comrade’s energon.

Prowl stood there watching, morbidly fascinated. He had never been too adept at close quarters combat, which thankfully wasn't required to shoot at enemies with a rifle or give mechs orders whilst doing so. To see such skill from Jazz was cause for both intimidation and appreciation.

“You would train me?” Prowl asked, stepping over the growing pool of energon to follow Jazz as the mech carried on briskly.

“‘Course I would. Can't have you dyin’ on me, now, can I?”

They continued in silence for half a minute before a voice traveled down the corridor.

“Yeah, no, I haven't seen them. And they haven't been answering comms? Probably slacking off, you know how they are.”

Jazz stepped to the side, somehow finding a shadow to hide in. He pulled Prowl after him, holding the doorwinger’s arm in a loose but firm grip.

“Yeah, I'm coming up on where they should be by this point, but who really knows with those two, am I right?” The Decepticon grunt turned the far corner, occupied by his comm. link. “Ha! Yeah, seems legit.”

He passed by the shadowed alcove without care, and Jazz stepped out to strike his vulnerable back.

Then the mech said, “Ah, wait, this might be the wrong corridor.” He turned, and saw the ever intimidating form of a mech about to stab him. “Alert!” the Decepticon cried, the only word he managed to utter before Jazz plunged his knife into the mech’s chest. With a clatter, the greying corpse fell to the floor.

“I think they're onto us, Prowler.” Jazz grinned and started running.

Prowl followed, grimacing as every other step sent a twinge through the wound in his thigh. Skidding around a corner, Prowl ducked as a blaster bolt lanced over his helm.

Three Decepticons stood at the other end of the hall, blasters drawn and ready to fire.

“Fire at will,” Jazz said, starting towards the group at a speed Prowl could hardly manage to equal.

Turning his optics to the Decepticons, Prowl lifted his blaster and fired two shots. One heavy Decepticon went down, two holes in his chest. The next fell victim to Jazz’s blade, and the third collapsed with a smoking pit where his optic should have been.

Jazz turned a sharp grin on Prowl. “Good shooting, love.” Then he was gone, and Prowl hurried to catch up. He lost sight of the mech within moments, and managed to follow only by the mech’s spark registering on his sensors.

Fourteen seconds and one left turn later, Prowl ran into two tank heavies as they stepped out from the junction, blasters out and stances menacing.

Prowl took out the first with three well-placed shots to the neck, shoulder, and hip. Then a large fist struck him from the side, sending Prowl flying against the wall. Prowl stumbled upright, lifting his blaster to take out the approaching wall of plating.

Energon sprayed from the tank’s throat as a knife sliced it open from behind. Prowl sidestepped the frame as it struck the floor with a resounding crash.

“Keep up, mech,” Jazz said. His frame was spattered with energon, none of it his own, and he held two knives, now, both liberally coated in glowing lifeblood.

“Stop going so far ahead, then,” Prowl quipped in reply.

A few turns and one more dead Decepticon later, Jazz had them before a side door. It had a keypad, but the saboteur solve that problem as he had solved all the others they'd encountered– with a thrust and twist of his knife. The keypad made a brief, pitiful whining sound before dying. The door clicked open.

Jazz held no ceremony, grabbing Prowl’s arm and dragging the mech after him at a pace Prowl could just barely follow. It was only when they had reached the crest of the nearest hill that Jazz slowed, releasing his hold on Prowl.

Turning, Jazz looked out over the outpost. “Well, that was excitin’.” He held out the trigger that would activate the charges lining the base. “Care to do the honors?”

Prowl looked at the device for a long moment. “No,” he said quietly. With the excitement of escaping beginning to wind down, he found himself falling into an empty apathy. It was not an unfamiliar feeling–he would be dealing with the fallout of all this later.

“Suit yourself.” Jazz pressed the button with aplomb, and they watched as the whole outpost collapsed in on itself. Smoke, dust, and not a small amount of fire began to fill the area above and around the defunct outpost.

Jazz had placed the charges very well, Prowl thought. There were likely no survivors. His spark seized for a moment as his mind flashed to Barricade.

“Don't worry,” Jazz said, “Barricade’s on his way to Kaon– left over a hour ago.” He turned to Prowl. The rising blaze of the outpost reflected off his silver plating. “Barricade lied to you, Prowl. He tried to manipulate you. Mourn him and get over it, because you'll never see him again outside the battlefield.”

Prowl let his gaze fall to the ground, his wings droop low. Then he lifted his helm, straightened his back and put away his grief– there would be time enough to mourn when he got back to Iacon. “Of course,” he said softly.

“Good mech.” Jazz nodded. “Come on now, love, we got a long drive to the rendezvous.”

 

“You've been to the medbay?” Smokescreen asked, concern flashing across his face as he looked at the patch on Prowl’s wings.

“Yes,” Prowl replied. “I'm no worse for wear.”

The TacHead nodded. “Good, good.” He tapped a finger on his desk, doorwings twitching. “Tell me what happened.”

“I have a report, sir.” Prowl nodded to the datapad sitting between them on the other mech’s desk.

“I want to hear it from you directly.”

Prowl inclined his helm. “Of course.” He considered the desk as he thought of his phrasing. “The mission began as planned. Transport to the outpost went without a hitch. We sent Barricade in according to plan, and he exited the base over a hour later. I registered the data he gave me and produced an appropriate plan of action. We entered the base and were ambushed by a large amount of the Decepticon forced stationed at the base; Barricade had informed them of our plans, and fed me false data. Axel and Copperset were killed during the combat. The rest of us were put into holding cells.

“Barricade later came to the cell holding myself and Triaxial and attempted to recruit me to the Decepticons, confessing that he was a deep cover Decepticon spy among the Autobot forces.” Prowl felt his spark quiver with agitation, and fought to keep his voice steady. “I refused his efforts, and he left. About six hours later, Triaxial managed to open our cell by offering Autobot intel to the guard, and then dispatching the guard. We looked for the others, but they had been killed, presumably due to their refusal to give up Autobot intel.

“Triaxial and I made our way out, placing explosive charges at key structural points on our way. Having exited the base, we activated the charges. We then made our way to the rendezvous point.”

Smokescreen nodded along with Prowl’s words, and sat forward following Prowl’s conclusion. “Did you have any trouble leaving the base?”

“We encountered one patrol, but we managed to dispatch the mecha before being noticed.”

“I see.” Smokescreen braced his forearms on the desk. “Your mission was not a complete failure, but neither was it accomplished. Nonetheless, a variable such as a Decepticon spy would not have factored highly in your calculations; you will not be highly penalized for this affair.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Smokescreen nodded. “You'll be on two-thirds rations for the next two weeks. Dismissed.”

Prowl stood, inclining his helm respectfully before leaving the TacHead’s office. Outside the Tactical department, Prowl dithered between going to get energon and simply retreating to his room. Want of solitude and rest overcame need for fuel, and Prowl set off for his room.

The walk went by quickly, all but a blur as Prowl traversed the halls automatically. Typing in his code, Prowl entered the room and let the door slide shut behind him.

Optics offline, Prowl leaned back against the door. He tipped his helm back against the cool metal and let out a long, emptying sigh. For a moment (just a moment) he felt tears well in his optics, and his mouth twisted into a mournful grimace. Sorrow came up in his throat, like a scream waiting to be heard.

Then the moment passed, and Prowl pushed away his grief (for Barricade, for himself, for what he'd lost), standing up straight and making his way to the storage cube at the base of his berth.

Prowl was not a mech who kept mementos, preferring the security of memory to an image or object that could easily be taken away. Still, though, perhaps he still had it…

It took a good half-hour of searching before Prowl sat back, holoprojector in hand. Flicking it on, Prowl stared at the image that appeared.

It was him– him and Barricade. The angle indicated that Barricade held the camera in his servo, his other arm slung about the image-Prowl’s waist. The Prowl in the image looked reticent, but he smiled nonetheless. Barricade wore a wide grin.

Prowl stared at the image for several long seconds, and felt his spark bleed.

A press of a button, and the image flickered, switching to a frozen video. Touching the holo base, Prowl started the clip.

_“So how does it feel to have solved your first big case?” The image pressed in on Prowl’s face, jittering slightly in Barricade’s servos. Flashes of the background –a busy pedestrian road outside the police precinct– came and went._

_Prowl slipped out of the camera’s view, saying, “Stop it.” A shy smile tinted his voice._

_“Hey, this is momentous! This is the start of a great career for you, kiddo!” Barricade turned the camera towards himself, smiling into it. He reached out and caught Prowl about the waist, pulling him into the view of the camera. “Smile, kid– for posterity.”_

_Prowl shook his helm, but a smile turned his lips._

_Barricade’s expression softened, and he looked down at the younger mech. “I'm proud of you, kiddo.”_

_Prowl looked up, surprise on his face. “Really?” Then he smiled, wide and happy, optics shining. “Thanks,” he said. He seemed about to burst with pride._

_Barricade chuckled. “Anything for you, kid.”_

The video ended, image frozen, its edges blurred by the awkward cut. Prowl’s breaths came quick, and his lips curled back into a grimace. His spark lurched in his chest, beating too fast.

When his grief rose in his throat, Prowl couldn't hold it back. He bent over, doorwings trembling. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. Silent screams wracked Prowl’s frame as he bowed his helm and mourned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing the ending to this chapter– making Prowl hurt is just *deep breath* so refreshing  
> Comments are basically required at this point because I have no beta and no other way to get feedback so please


	9. Chapter 9

It had been almost a month since Prowl had last seen Jazz. He hadn't seen the mech since that botched mission, from which only he and Jazz had returned.

Prowl didn't think of that mission. He didn't think of Barricade. He didn’t think about his mentor, the first mech he'd ever trusted, choking Prowl in his anger.

Work was a good distraction. The numbers were safe, the outcomes predictable to a point. A suitable balance between chance and control.

Stepping out of the Tactical department, shift over, Prowl dithered for a long moment over what to do. Options came to mind and were discarded– he'd been spending far too much time at the shooting range lately. It had become almost boring. The main rec. room was full of mecha that Prowl didn't feel like being near, and Prowl would rather not go back to his empty, silent room.

With nothing he wanted to do and nothing he needed to do, Prowl wandered.

Over seven months in Iacon, and Prowl had yet to truly explore the Autobot base. Not for lack of time, simply for lack of motivation. Boredom, however, may be motivation enough.

If he were the mech he'd been a few hundred years ago, Prowl would have been far too intimidated by the prospect of somehow ending up where he aught not to be to explore in any way. But Prowl was not that mech, and he explored with confidence and casual interest.

The lower levels held more mecha than the upper levels– which made sense, since the upper levels held more offices and workplaces while the lower levels had the barracks and rec. rooms.

He could have been walking and wandering for hours (but it was likely less than two) before he found the perfect area; a subterranean racing track.

It wasn't so much a racing _track_ as it was a gigantic room with ramps, tracks, and otherwise, scattered throughout. It also wasn't so much a _racing_ track as it was a place to train high speed pursuit in different terrains and circumstances.

The place was huge, and absolutely, blissfully empty.

Prowl looked up at the ceiling, high and untouchable. He looked at the far wall, visible in the distance, but only just. He looked at the ground, dusty and undisturbed by any but himself for a very long time.

The doorwinger took one step forward, then another. He began to run. Every step echoed loudly in the cavernous room, but Prowl didn't hear it over the elated rush in his audials. It wasn't until his spark pounded and his ventilations heaved that he leapt into his transformation.

The burn of his engine as he pushed it was better than anything he'd felt in weeks. The air brushing along his plating, the feeling of the ground beneath his wheels– Primus, Prowl didn't know how much he'd actually needed this until now.

It would have been better to have someone to race with (his mind flicked to a doorwinger with amber optics and a wry grin) but Prowl could make do on his own.

For the first half-hour he warmed his engine, enjoying the tilted ramps that littered the area. When he'd warmed up his frame and tested his wheels, Prowl set for slightly harder challenges.

Building up to a reasonable speed, Prowl drove towards one of the aerial ramps. He reached it, and his momentum slung him into the air. Prowl transformed, just barely catching himself in a roll, and flipped into his alt. mode again. It all took barely three seconds, and Prowl prided himself on maintaining his momentum.

Leaning into a roundabout turn, Prowl came to face the ramp again. He leapt it and transformed. This time, however, Prowl did not manage a proper roll. Landing hard on his shoulder, his wing caught on the floor. Prowl fell to the side and rolled once with his momentum. Groaning, Prowl pushed himself onto his back. He stared up at the faraway ceiling, and felt a small, elated smile turn his lips.

“Again,” he said to no one, getting to his pedes with a grunt.

Time passed, but Prowl wasn’t counting the minutes. He did the leaping transformation over and over and over until he'd absolutely perfected it. Someone else might have gotten bored or frustrated, but Prowl was nothing if not determined and stubborn.

Having perfected that move, Prowl carried on to try the next move that came to mind; driving towards an obstacle, transforming and launching over it, then transforming again. This was easier than the roll, and more fun as well. Prowl experimented with different ways of leaping over an obstacle whilst maintaining momentum– parkour had never been part of his formal training, but now was as good a time as any to learn.

It was very enjoyable. Active, ever moving. With each moment that passed Prowl made split-second decisions that kept him from sprawling across the hard floor. He'd long since abandoned simply driving at an obstacle, mixing things up as he'd seen done in those videos that (there was a blank spot here in Prowl’s thoughts– no name, just amber optics and a grin) had enjoyed showing him a long time ago.

(Prowl always hid from painful memories. Where there ought to be a name, a face, there was only a silhouette. Amber optics and slender doorwings. Yellow visor and wide shoulders. Blue gaze and yellow-golden plating and a fear that sat low in Prowl’s spark. But Prowl did not remember them, did not think their names, because he did not want to.)

Prowl drove and ran and leapt. He never stopped moving, just like he'd never stopped running– if he stopped, it would all catch up with him.

 

Prowl went back to the subterranean cavern every other day. He enjoyed being there immensely; the silence and emptiness felt different from the isolation of his room, but no less preferable. His room was a place for rest, releasing the stress of the day through sleep. This was a place for stress relief through action.

Setting a good warm-up pace, Prowl drove around the gigantic room. Taking a ramp, he executed his transformation and easily rolled back into his altmode once he'd hit the ground. A few more minor stunts, then he set a faster pace. How fast could he go without overstressing his engine? It was time to find out.

Prowl picked out a route and a reference point to record his speed; his own processors were more than enough to do the calculations.

He drove around a few times, speeding up with each round until he drove at the fastest speed he could easily maintain.

Prowl drove faster, then faster. He took the next turn sharply, skidding around the sloped ramp he'd put in his way. He turned back to race towards the forward end of the room. It took several seconds before his path took him before the short wall he'd chosen to mark his speed, and then–

And then someone was chasing after him. A revving engine rose beneath the roar of his own, and Prowl felt the movement of a spark and frame driving not far behind himself.

The rush of racing on his own was nothing compared to the excited almost-panic that seized Prowl’s spark. He did not immediately spare a thought for identifying the bot racing after him (he knew who it was, subconsciously; he would have drawn his gun on any unknown) instead speeding up.

With the seconds of headstart the other had given Prowl, and the fact that the mech had started from stationary while Prowl was already skimming his top speeds, meant Prowl had gotten far ahead from the other grounder before a minute had passed. By then, Prowl had consciously identified the mech.

Jazz’s acceleration was fast, though, and he ate up the space between them as Prowl led the other deeper into the gigantic room, taking a winding path between the obstacles.

By the time they were almost a kilometer from the entrance, Jazz was close enough that Prowl could have touched him had they been in bipedal. Prowl was a pursuit vehicle, and suited to endurance at high speeds, but he could not match Jazz’s speedster-frame acceleration.

Prowl’s processor flicked through a hundred possible actions Jazz could take, spark beating hard with exhilaration, the rules to this game already understood.

The sound of transformation reached Prowl’s audials. That was Contingency #173 of the Race/Spar J. processor thread. Prowl had a response in place for #173, and .002 seconds after he heard the beginnings of transformation, Prowl hit his brakes.

Claws just skimmed the top of Prowl’s cab, and he knew he'd made the correct choice. He transformed rather than carrying on (there was no way he could accelerate fast enough to get ahead) letting the momentum of his movement slam him into Jazz.

They both crashed to the ground. Prowl flung his weight on the other mech, reaching up to seize his horns. Jazz let out a growl, and then a servo reached under Prowl’s arm to dig into the hinge of his doorwing.

Prowl deadened the sensors in his wings, but the agony that lanced through him was enough to give Jazz the upper hand. The saboteur rolled them, using Prowl’s wing as a hold, until Jazz’s weight all but pinned Prowl down.

Prepared for it, Prowl pulled up his legs before Jazz could pin them, locking his legs about the mech’s neck and shoulder in a triangle choke hold. Before he could complete it with an arm lock, Jazz had grabbed Prowl’s wrist and locked it to the floor with a magnacuff. Prowl yanked the Decepticon’s wrist with his remaining servo before Jazz could seize Prowl’s other arm. The second magnacuff leapt up and locked about Jazz’s arm, dragging it down to the ground.

Both of them, with their only available servo, reached for the other’s weak point. Prowl seized a horn in a vice grip as claws dug into the plating of his wing.

“Seems we’re at a stalemate, mech.” Jazz said. His mouth was open, lips quirked into a grin, and his ventilator fans whirred loudly in the sudden silence. Prowl’s own fans roared in harmony, his chest heaving with every cooling breath he took.

“So it seems.” Prowl felt an answering half-grin part his lips. “Where have you been?”

Jazz shrugged. “Ah, you know, around. Ampere had us out doing a long-term perimeter patrol. We jus’ got back yesterday.”

“I see.” Prowl tugged fruitlessly at the magnacuff on his left arm. “May I ask why you attacked me?”

Jazz’s engine revved, and his grin widened. “We were playin’ chase, love, that was the logical conclusion. You did pretty well, I'd say. Haven't had a chase like that in a good long time.”

“Nor have I.”

The Decepticon’s grin turned salacious. “Is it true what they say about pursuit alts? Chasin’ turns that engine over like nothing else?” The pinch on Prowl’s wing became a knowing tickle, claws reaching under the plating for sensitive nodes.

Prowl’s smile turned into a frown, and he pinched Jazz’s horn. “Get off me.”

“You're the one with your legs around me!” Jazz declared, laughing. Prowl shoved his face away, unwrapping his legs from the mech’s frame and pushing Jazz away with his pedes.

Sitting up, Prowl focused on the magnacuff holding his wrist to the floor. “Are these my cuffs?” Prowl said, noting a familiar, curved scratch on the metal of the left cuff.

“Might be.” Jazz shrugged innocently.

Prowl inputted his code into the small number pad, and sure enough the cuffs snapped open. Prowl quickly put them into subspace and pointed an accusing finger at Jazz. “You were going through my things!”

“They were in the top drawer of your desk! What was I supposed to do, leave them there?”

“That would have been the polite thing to do.”

“Since when have I ever been polite?”

Prowl let himself laugh, short and quiet. Pushing himself to his pedes, Prowl flicked his doorwings and resettled his armor. “Were you looking for me?”

Jazz still sat on the floor, forearm propped on the bend of his knee. “Yep. Took a while too– forgot I had a tracker on that knife I gave t’you.”

A grimace turned Prowl’s lips, and he took the knife from subspace. “A tracker? Really?”

“Gotta be able to find my favorite tactician.” Jazz held out a servo. Prowl stepped closer, the metal of his leg brushing Jazz’s elbow, and dropped the knife. Jazz caught it deftly. With a flick of his thumb, he'd opened the little knob of metal at the base that Prowl had assumed to be decorative. A small tracker blinked into sight before Jazz flicked the cap closed.

Prowl frowned, taking back the knife when Jazz held it up. “Why did you show it to me?”

Jazz winked. “I heard somethin’ about ‘relationships are built on trust’ or some slag. Do me a favor, though, and keep that in there.”

“A favor, hm?” Prowl smirked just slightly. “What will you give me in return?”

“Lessons on how to use the damn thing.”

“You already promised me lessons.”

Jazz held up a finger. “No, I promised lessons on close quarters combat, not using a knife during CQC.” He pushed himself to his pedes in a single fluid movement. “Speaking of, this is as good a place as any to start your CQC lessons.”

Prowl took a few steps back, putting the knife into subspace. “Are you sure?”

“Well if you ain't…” Jazz spread his servos with a grin. “We could wait until another time.”

“I am not nearly competitive enough to fall for that.”

Jazz huffed. “I thought as much. Just come at me, Prowler, we’ll see how you do.” He held out a servo, gesturing Prowl near with a flick of his digits.

Prowl considered it. But his tanks pinged almost empty, and his wings protested their treatment by Jazz’s claws. “Some other time,” he said. “I'm hungry.”

“Ah, damn.” Jazz laughed. “I guess we’ll have to wait. You wanna go out into the city? I'll buy ya somethin’ nice to eat.”

“No, thank you.” Prowl transformed, setting off towards the exit. Jazz followed close behind with a whirr of transformation.

“Sure? I know a couple good cafes that seem to fit your tastes.”

Prowl sped up. “You don't even know my tastes.”

“I can guess!” Jazz drew up beside Prowl. “Hmm… you like savory things, am I right?”

“Sweet, actually.” Prowl sped up just a little bit more. Jazz’s engine revved as he matched Prowl’s pace. Then they raced each other to the exit. Jazz won by a short margin, transforming as he skidded passed the wall that had marked Prowl’s speed not long before.

“So, sweet things.” Jazz fluffed out his plating and shook himself as though to dispel the energy of their short race. “Guess that's what makes you so saccharine.”

Prowl transformed and headed for the lift, granting Jazz with only a roll of his optics. Pressing the call button, Prowl waited before the plain grey door.

“So what's your favorite sweet thing, eh? ‘Cause mine is you.” Jazz slid up smoothly against Prowl’s side, propping his elbow on the wall. “Seriously, though, I want that trivia.”

Shaking his helm, Prowl stepped into the lift as the door slid open. “Cobalt soft-candies. When I was young–” the name stuck in his throat, stuttered in his mind– “I knew someone who knew how to make them.” Amber optics and narrow doorwings. “He learned to make them because I liked them.”

Jazz looked far too knowing as he stepped into the lift, pressing the button for the ground floor. “He sounds like a nice guy.”

“I suppose.”

That bright blue visor turned towards Prowl, and Jazz tilted his helm. His smirk held a challenge in it. “What was his name?”

Prowl looked back at Jazz. “I don't remember,” he lied (to himself as well as to Jazz).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The urge to let the race and spar devolve into sex was very, very strong. But although they kissed in the first chapter, and slept together in the second, those were power moves to throw each other off and this story is a slow burn. Rest assured, however, they will have sex before they realize their eventual feelings because I as a person have no idea how relationships naturally develop.  
> This chapter felt rather scattered to me, but the general underlying concepts of Prowl's habit to basically deny memory of anything (or anyone) that has hurt him went through, I hope. Please comment! I really want to see what you guys think of this chapter :)  
> Edit: it abruptly occurred to me that my nameless references might be too subtle? Idk what's a good amount of subtle but hopefully the amber-opticked mech Prowl Does Not Think Of is recognizable as Barricade. The others... well :)


	10. Chapter 10

Stepping into the Tactical department, Prowl’s optics caught on Smokescreen, standing in the door of his office. The TacHead met Prowl’s optic and tilted his helm towards the open door. Obeying the silent summons, Prowl strode over to the door and stepped inside.

Smokescreen sat down behind his desk. “Thank you, Prowl,” he said. With a flick of his wrist, Smokescreen indicated a datapad lying on the desk before him. “This is your new assignment. It's somewhat different than your last.”

Prowl frowned, taking the datapad. He didn't look at it. “Are you sure I should take a tac mission, sir? The last one didn't go very well.” A gigantic understatement.

(It had been almost two months since that colossal failure of a mission. Prowl still got dark looks from mecha who'd known Ironside and his unit personally. Jazz never got any dark looks; it was ‘all that damn tactician’s fault. The slaggers never care for us, we’re just pawns to push around for them’.)

Smokescreen waved a servo. “The failure of the mission was not your fault, though it was your responsibility. I know you're capable of command missions, and I'm willing to give you a chance to express that capability.”

“Ah… thank you, sir.” Prowl bowed his helm.

Smokescreen offered an encouraging smile. “I don't doubt you'll do well, Prowl. Dismissed.”

Prowl left the TacHead’s office, walking over to his console. Plugging in the datapad, Prowl unspooled his own hardline and plugged into the console.

This mission was, unlike the many offensive tactical statements Prowl had been doing, an escort mission. Ultra Magnus, the Second in Command of the Autobot army, was going out to Praxus to negotiate a trade of resources.

Prowl’s processor stuck on the name of Praxus, and for a moment a flood of memories washed over him before he beat them back.

For the mission, Prowl would be in charge of the escort unit, which had seven mechs whose names and abilities Prowl’s processor noted and filed. The goal of the mission was to escort Ultra Magnus safely to and from the city-state of Praxus. Increased Decepticon activity in the neighboring state of Polyhex was cause for concern and increased security.

Shutting his optics, Prowl delved into the data.

The route to Praxus was key to the success of the mission. With the Decepticons so active, and Praxus so restrictive, taking a shuttle would be difficult. The only other option was a convoy. More risky, and slower, and harder to defend, but it had the benefits of stealth and likewise. Those benefits did not, in Prowl’s opinion, outweigh the risk, but the bureaucracy of securing a shuttle flight through Praxian airspace would take far longer than the mission itself.

So, convoy it was. Prowl gathered up the available data of the expanse between Iacon and Praxus, setting a processor thread to figuring out the most secure route.

Provided the convoy arrived at Praxus intact, there was the matter of security, lodgings, and schedule once within the city itself. The schedule would have to be made once they actually reached the city, but Prowl could make a rough outline from the data provided. As for security, Prowl had played the part of political escort several times when in Praxus’s law enforcement, and knew what measures to take. Lodgings were more difficult to procure, and Prowl reached out through the datanet for information on various places in Praxus where the Autobot SIC could sleep with less risk of being assassinated.

Overall, Prowl found the assignment a refreshing change from offensive tactics.

By the time his shift ended, Prowl had the route mostly complete, several options of lodgings that would have to be scouted onsite, and a security program that he would have to introduce to the unit of mecha he'd be working with.

Filing all his work under an encrypted file, Prowl disconnected from the console. Recovering the datapad, Prowl stood up from the console and pushed in his chair.

Stepping out of the Tactical department, Prowl began to draft a message for Ultra Magnus as he walked towards the main rec. room. It was a simple message, containing the outlined schedule as well as a possible timetable. Sending the message as he entered the rec. room, Prowl turned his attention towards retrieving his ration.

Cube in hand, Prowl found his choice in table companion (which would have been ‘none’) removed from him as Jazz took hold of Prowl’s elbow and led him to a well-placed table. Prowl went along, sighing.

Sitting down in the chair Jazz indicated him to (the Decepticon insisted on facing the room, like always), Prowl took a careful sip from his cube.

“Did you need something?” Prowl asked coolly.

“Don't need anythin’, per se.” Flashing a grin, Jazz slouched back in his chair. He threw an arm over the back of his chair, displaying his favorable physique. “We gonna do some sparrin’ today?”

Prowl’s doorwings twitched in a shrug. “Our appointments depend on your schedule, not mine.”

“That feels like a ‘yes’.”

“Your instincts are correct.”

Jazz laughed. “Good! I was worried I was gettin’ rusty, hangin’ around you all day.” He drummed his digits on the table. “So how was work, love? Didja save the city? Solve world-hunger?”

Prowl allowed a small smile. “Nothing so drastic. And you? Have you dazzled your commanders with your blaster-wielding prowess?”

“I'm thinkin’ my new CO thinks I'm cursed, y’know? ‘Cause I was the only one comin’ back from Ironside’s unit.”

Primus, had Jazz no tact? Prowl grimaced, feeling glares suddenly pierce his back. “Perhaps,” he said. Prowl’s digits tightened about the cube in his servos. “Or perhaps it is simply your stellar personality.”

“Mm, maybe.” Jazz tilted his helm. “So how you doin’, eh? Never did ask you how you're holdin’ up.”

Prowl frowned. “I refuse to have this conversation here.”

“If you got your way we wouldn't have this conversation at all. Or any conversation relatin’ t’what Barricade said about ya, for that matter.”

“Well perhaps I enjoy some modicum of privacy.” Prowl knocked back the contents of his cube and stood. Jazz followed as Prowl made his way towards the entrance. Optics followed them, and Prowl seethed silently beneath their judgment.

Prowl walked the distance to the lift, jabbing at the ‘down' button viciously.

“You look tense,” Jazz said after two long minutes of silence. The lift dinged, and Prowl stepped through the doors before they had even opened fully.

“Are you coming?” Prowl said sharply, staring hard at the Decepticon.

Jazz smiled slightly. “Of course I am, love, don’t worry.” He stepped into the lift and pressed the button for the eighth basement down.

 

Prowl ducked under Jazz’s high kick, sweeping out a leg to take the mech down while his balance was at risk. Jazz fell, but he directed the movement into a roll, widening the space between them.

Prowl crossed that space while Jazz was still in motion, bringing his elbow down on Jazz’s shoulder as the other made to rise. Jazz’s arms fell out from beneath him, but that didn't stop him from grabbing Prowl’s leg and pulling him to the ground.

It was crucial that Prowl act before Jazz could pin him; they both knew that Prowl was at a disadvantage during ground-wrestling due to his his wide doorwings.

Kicking out as he fell, Prowl caught Jazz’s horn with his heel. The mech let out a short grunt of pain. Prowl twisted, just barely managing to bring up his arm to block Jazz’s blow. Pulling in his legs, Prowl kicked Jazz in the abdomen. The Decepticon huffed as the air in his vents was forcibly expelled.

Prowl’s anger did not add quality to his performance, but the surging fury in his spark lent to more ferocious reactions.

Bringing his pede down hard on Jazz’s chest as the mech fell back to the floor, Prowl heaved himself upright. Prowl sat himself on Jazz’s abdomen, taking the mech’s horn in a vice grip as he brought down his knife. Silver claws lashed out, wrapping about Prowl’s wrist. The edge of Prowl’s blade shivered two centimeters from Jazz’s throat.

“Nice try, love, but I win,” Jazz gasped, wearing an open-mouthed grin as he panted. Prowl felt, then, the prick of a knife in the cables beneath his bumper.

Jazz’s words faded from the air, leaving only their heavy ventilations and whirring fans to give sound. The rush of the fight had gone from Prowl’s audials, and with it his adrenaline fueled anger.

They stared at one another, neither moving. The prick beneath Prowl’s bumper remained, a reminder that Jazz could very, very easily kill Prowl in that moment.

But then Prowl wondered, would he? Prowl tilted his helm, a curious frown turning his lips into a faint pout. Jazz frowned too, but his was not curious.

The air crackled with unspoken challenge, and Prowl knew that they were playing another game. A game that Jazz, for once, did not want to play. That fact, in itself, gave Prowl the answer he wanted, but there were greater lengths he could go to in order to prove it. To force Jazz to tell him the answer.

Shifting, Prowl sat his hips back on Jazz’s and began to press his chest down. The twinge of Jazz’s blade did not change place, the Decepticon holding it still in his servo. Faint pain bloomed as Prowl pressed forward, letting the knife delve deeper into his chassis.

Jazz’s visor glowed a harsh red, and his lips pressed together, expression blank. Prowl let his own servos fall away, releasing Jazz’s horn, knife clattering to the floor as Prowl braced his servos on the ground.

The faint pain took a harder bite when the blade, at last, sliced a minor cable. Unaffected, Prowl continued. Alerts flashed on his HUD, but Prowl dismissed them. More cables were cut, energon lines sliced. Glowing pink trickled sluggishly down to stain Jazz’s servo.

After an eternity, Prowl’s chest pressed flush against Jazz’s, the Decepticon’s servo pinned between them. An ache glowed beneath Prowl’s bumper, and once more alerts blared bright on his HUD, warning of a foreign intrusion less than a millimeter from Prowl’s sparkchamber.

Despite the danger and the pain, Prowl smiled; Jazz had changed the angle at which he held the blade. Rather than let it pierce Prowl’s spark, Jazz had tilted it back just so and let the knife skim past Prowl’s sparkchamber. Barely noticeable, but Prowl was nothing if not perceptive.

Drunk with his victory, Prowl bowed his helm. Lips ghosting across Jazz’s, Prowl whispered, “I win.”

Air huffed from Jazz’s vents, and the rising darkness in his gaze gave way to something else. “I guess you do.” He smiled ruefully. With a tilt of his helm, Jazz pressed a short peck to Prowl’s lips. “Let's get you to a medic, love. Can't have you bleedin’ out on me.”

With a grimace, Prowl pulled himself upright. Nothing vital had been damaged, but the energon marking Jazz’s servo, and now Prowl’s abdomen, was somewhat concerning.

Heaving himself to his pedes, Prowl waited for Jazz to rise before making his way to the lift. Jazz beat him to it, pressing the ‘up’ button.

Neither spoke as the numbers over the lift doors flashed. When the doors at last slid open, Jazz’s visor bled to blue. Prowl stepped into the lift, leaning into a corner as Jazz pressed the floor with the medbay.

“Y’want me to come with you to the medbay?” Jazz asked, his tone revealing nothing more than polite interest. Prowl looked at him.

“No, thank you. I will be well enough on my own.”

“Alright, then.” Jazz pressed the button for the sixth floor.

The doors slid open on the first floor, and Prowl stepped out. “See you later,” he said, more automatically than anything.

Jazz gave a half-grin and a wave. “See ya, Prowler.” The door slid shut, and the numbers above it blinked at the lift rose upwards.

Prowl stared at the doors for a moment, his head full of thoughts that he couldn't quite parse.

A twinge in his chest brought Prowl back to the present. Shaking his helm, Prowl set off towards the medbay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The closest thing to a semi-erotic scene in this entire fic so far and it involves someone being stabbed with a knife  
> Please give comments, I'd love some feedback


	11. Chapter 11

“The Council expects results.”

“Results! There _are_ no results! We’ve been cracking on this thing for decades with nothing!”

Prowl huddled in his alt. mode in a corner of his cell, far from the energy barrier that kept the ones outside at bay.

“Primus,” continued the second speaker, “there's not even any _point_! So it’s a little clever– how exactly does that threaten the Functionist way?”

“Because pursuit alts don't just take to spark and wake up with the ability to do advanced processes without the installed hardware. Why are we having this conversation?” The keypad by the barrier beeped as unseen digits typed in the code. Prowl had long since memorized the series, though they changed it every now and then. (Prowl couldn't say when, though, or how often– without a chronometer, time became ill-defined.)

“Because I love hearing you say long words.”

“Pfft, be serious.”

The barrier vanished. Prowl rolled further back into the corner, armor clamping down.

“Look, I just think that we’ve been wasting far too much time trying to get answers that aren't even necessary. So what if we don't know? They've gone around their values before for things they can't quantify.”

The first speaker walked over to Prowl. A pede nudged his bumper. “Transform, come on.”

Prowl obeyed at once. Armor slicked to his frame, Prowl glanced up briefly at the mech. He knew this one, knew both of them. He hadn't seen them for a long time. (Hadn't seen anyone.)

“Time for the next round, mech,” the other said. Prowl nodded mutely.

He followed behind them, unshackled and unresistant. (No point in fighting the inevitable.)

Prowl stepped through the door he was led to. The room was full of mecha (too full, too full) but their optics slid over him, the line of law enforcement recruits he was in lending him anonymity.

Names were called, recruits assigned mentors. Prowl listened hard, remembered each name and face, assigned them to a file; he would not fail at anything given him. (Failure was not an option.)

“Sentrine, your new rookie is Highjack,” said the police chief, Redmark. Prowl already had an extensive file on him, largely compiled from the mech’s official file that Prowl had acquired. “Barricade, you have Prowl. Gasket…”

Prowl glanced up, looking for this ‘Barricade’. He caught the optic of a black doorwinger, who grinned. Hesitantly, Prowl made his way over.

“I'm Barricade,” the mech said. His amber optics glowed with some sort of expression Prowl hadn't seen before. It was soft, almost, like the blanket back on Prowl’s berth in his brand new room in the barracks that felt far too big. (Prowl had never felt anything so soft as the berth he now slept on, the blanket that came with it. The other mecha in the recruit barracks complained about the accommodations, but Prowl had nothing but silent appreciation.)

“Prowl.” For a moment, Prowl considered giving his serial number and alt specs, but the mech in the room next to his had said that giving ones full identification was weird. Prowl could not take such risks.

The mech (Barricade, Prowl reminded himself) offered a smile. “Well, nice to meet you, kiddo.” He reached out. Prowl flinched from the strike, before freezing. Barricade frowned, and Prowl felt fear.

“They usually give an hour or so of acclimation time,” the cop said slowly. His gaze was dark with consideration and that strange, soft thing. “Come on, there's a pretty good cafe I know a couple streets down.”

Replies were necessary for interaction, Prowl knew this. “Yes, sir,” he said.

“None of that sir, kid. Just call me Barricade.” He grinned again. Barricade seemed like a mech who smiled a lot. Prowl did not mind it.

“Yes, s- Barricade.”

The mech let out a huff that could have been a laugh. “Good enough. Follow me, kiddo. I'm gonna rock your world with the best cobalt mix you've ever had.”

Prowl followed after the older mech obediently, and wondered if perhaps the feeling he held now in his spark was trust.

 

Prowl woke with a melancholy ache in his spark. Already the images of his memory-flux were fading, but he remembered still the flash of amber optics filled with a strange protectiveness.

Shaking his helm, Prowl rose from his berth. Absently, he took the knife from atop the storage cube serving as a side table, turning the blade in his digits.

Stepping out into the hallway, Prowl considered retrieving energon. But the half-remembered memory-flux still tainted his spark, causing a twist in his tank. Abandoning the idea, Prowl headed for the Tactical department.

Few mecha spoke within the room, creating a soft, bleary air that came with early mornings. Prowl walked over to his console, sitting down and plugging in. He pulled up his plans for the Praxus trade meet, checking them over before settling in to continue.

A servo on his shoulder had Prowl jerking, and he turned to face the intruder with wide optics. Smokescreen took a step back, servos raised placatingly.

“Hey, sorry,” he said, “just wanted to give you the news.”

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” Prowl turned in his chair, unplugging from the console.

“The Decepticons caught wind of the trade meet,” Smokescreen said. He wore an irritated expression. “Praxus hasn't pulled out of the agreement yet, but it's likely that they will. I'll keep you updated, but for now,” he placed a datapad on Prowl’s console, “I'm having a few tacs working on city security. Put your processes concerning Praxus on hold.”

“Very well,” Prowl plugged the datapad in. “Anything else, sir?”

“That's it.” Smokescreen inclined his helm and left.

Prowl began to process his new objective, even as he mulled over the developments of the Praxus meet. It was… concerning, the involvement of the Decepticons. Praxus stood on a knife edge while the city’s government insisted on Praxus’s neutrality between the Autobots and Decepticons. There was always the possibility–

Prowl shook his helm, banishing whatever disturbed thoughts he had concerning his city of origin. The meet with Praxus was not his concern– not until further notice.

By the time alpha shift ended, Prowl had a few possible adjustments for Iacon’s security. Passing the datapad to another mech offering to take it in to Smokescreen, Prowl left the department.

Setting out for the main rec. room, Prowl had to stop himself again from trying to form processes about the developments of the Praxus trade meeting. He frowned down at the ground, sidestepping other mecha as he walked.

Stepping into the rec. room, Prowl walked over to the dispenser to recover his ration. Some part of him expected Jazz to come from somewhere, to poke and prod and pull words from Prowl’s mouth.

But Jazz did not appear, and Prowl left the rec. room alone. He made his way back to his quarters in silence, processor buzzing with this thought and that thought.

Typing in the code to his room, Prowl stepping inside and let the door click shut, locking out the ambient sounds of the base.

Mindlessly, Prowl walked to his desk, setting the cube on the surface as he pulled open the drawer. Something inside clattered against the edges, and Prowl frowned. Looking into the drawer, he saw the holoprojector gifted to him by (amber optics, narrow doorwings, a smile).

The contents of his dream returned, fragmented, though the theme was obvious.

Prowl stared at the holoprojector in the drawer and wondered how his mentor had known.

Minutes later, after an agony of consideration, Prowl sat on his berth, a datapad in his servos. The cube on his desk sat empty beside a slightly dusty holoprojector.

They say (whoever ‘they’ was) that the act of writing things down helps. Prowl had never written anything of his past down, never even breathed a word of it to anyone (amber optics, yellow visor).

_‘When I was’_

Prowl typed the words and paused, staring at the blinking line at the end of the words. He backspaced.

_‘I was created’_

Suddenly, Prowl realized he did not know what his creation date was.

_‘I was cold constructed with a batch of mecha bound for the Praxian law enforcement.’_

Simple, to the point. The words came easily enough.

_‘During the initial assessment tests, it was found that I was capable of advanced processing. However, I did not have the hardware or software installed that was necessary for such advanced processing. I was deemed an anomaly, and removed from the assessment program._

_I spent’_

Prowl paused, bit his lip.

_‘I was kept in a facility owned by the Functionist Council for an undetermined amount of time. I was not given identity or personhood. They referred to me by my serial number. I was not allowed to speak. I did not know how time passed, because they took my chronometer. Sometimes I think they forgot about me, because I would be in my cell for days before someone came and gave me fuel.’_

The words were like those of a newbuild, short and plain. They came quickly, and Prowl wrote furtively, as though someone might storm into his quarters and take him away.

_‘They conducted many tests in order to discover the cause of my advance process abilities. Once, the word ‘Outlier’ was mentioned. The idea was shot down quickly, however; Outliers are forged, and I am cold constructed. Other causes were considered: a flaw in construction, improper settling of my spark into my frame, etc. In the end, they found no solid reason for my abilities._

_‘I was punishe’_

Prowl backspaced hurriedly. He did not want to remember that.

_‘They diagnosed me as having a glitch, some flawed wiring in my processor and frayed software all resulting in the ability to imitate the action of advanced processors. I was removed from the facility and integrated into the function I was created for; law enforcement._

_‘They watched me for many decades, unsubtly. Every few years someone would come to me and ask me personal questions, searching for some hint of dissent. Several of my neighbors were obviously plants. Eventually, I think, the Council realized they had bigger problems than me._

_‘When they let me go’_

He hesitated.

_‘When they let me go, the leading researcher told me that I should be glad I fit the function I was constructed for.’_

And Prowl was glad for it, when he remembered to be.

_‘Sometimes I’_

His commlink blared with an emergency call. Prowl jolted as though he had been doused with ice water. He dropped the datapad, wincing as it clattered on the floor.

::Prowl!:: Smokescreen’s voice struck through Prowl’s comm. line the moment he accepted the link.

::Sir?:: Prowl scooped up the datapad quickly, scanning the text.

::Praxus is still in the trade meet, but they've moved up the schedule. They want Magnus out in Praxus by tomorrow evening. We need you up in Tactical.::

Oh, Primus. ::I'm on my way, sir.:: Prowl closed the link. The silence of his room slammed down on his audials without Smokescreen’s voice. Prowl looked at his datapad.

After a moment’s hesitation, Prowl locked it with his best firewall and left it on the desk before hurrying out of his quarters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually rewrote the chapter from scratch after looking over your guys's responses to chapter 7. The original chapter gave away more information about Prowl's past, but I decided that the excess was excess and trimmed it. Jazz was also originally in this chapter, but I removed that too.  
> I am very, incredibly nervous about this chapter, I'm not sure I quite like it and I desperately don't want to disappoint about any preconceptions already created about Prowl's past.  
> So please please comment I need to you what you all think of this one


	12. Chapter 12

While the word frantic didn't quite apply, there was certainly an air of urgency as a number of tacticians buzzed through the same data, working out a safe route for the Autobot SIC’s convoy to take to Praxus. Prowl had only a small thread of his processor dedicated to monitoring the other tacticians’ progress, the rest working on security measures, lodgings, schedules, risk factors, and contingency plans.

The end of beta shift rolled around, and the Tactical department heaved a sigh; their work was finished.

Prowl unplugged from his console. His processor buzzed with information; the new route, all the possible routes, everything he himself had been and was still processing.

While the Tactical department was busy with their work, Personnel & Resources pulled together the unit that would be going with Ultra Magnus, briefing them on the general mission and stocking them with rations and weaponry.

Pulling up to the readying unit, Prowl was almost surprised to see Optimus Prime there, along with a few other command officers. The Prime spoke quietly with Ultra Magnus, their voices drowned by the chatter of the convoy unit.

Smokescreen caught Prowl’s optic, walking over. “It's very short notice,” he said congenially, “but I'm pleased that we managed to pull this together.”

“We wouldn't be a very effective military force if we couldn't,” Prowl said in a moment of jest.

The TacHead laughed. “No, we wouldn't.” He smiled. “Good luck, Prowl.”

“Let's hope we won't need it.”

Prowl stood by as Smokescreen left to settle the convoy with a final briefing. Prowl’s helm smarted with the beginnings of a headache, but he would have no respite besides fuel for many hours. With a grimace, Prowl resigned himself to the pain.

“You headin’ out then, Prowler?”

Annoyance flashed across Prowl’s face. “Primus, these don't these mechs know the word ‘covert’?”

Jazz grinned. “Don't worry, mech, it wasn't them.” He tilted his helm to the medic standing away from the group. “First Aid over there needed an audial to rant about how insecure he was about going along.”

“Hm.” Prowl pursed his lips, looking at the medic. They would have to bring a medic along (for emergencies, besides the fact that the medical caste was widely regarded as trustworthy and fairly harmless, which made him a good representative) but perhaps he shouldn't have chosen a mech so young as First Aid. His file had certainly been promising…

“Lay off the young thing,” Jazz said, waving a servo. “Mech’s just nervous, but he'll do his job.”

“I'll take your word for it.” Prowl glanced over at the Prime, but the Autobot leader was still in conversation with Ultra Magnus.

Jazz crossed his arms over his chest. “So… Praxus.”

“Quite so.” The corner of Prowl’s mouth quirked briefly.

The saboteur huffed, smiling slightly. “Well,” he said, smile dropping, “better keep that knife on you, yeah? I'd hate to lose you.”

Prowl rewarded the double meaning of Jazz’s words with an amused smile. “I'll do my best.”

“Lookin’ forward to seein’ your home city again?”

Prowl’s smile dimmed. “Not quite,” he said.

Jazz nodded. “I get that. Dunno how I'd feel, steppin’ back into Tarn. Probably something homicidal, though.” He grinned and winked. Prowl shook his head, smile returning for a brief moment.

Optimus Prime stepped forward, catching the optic of every mech present. Prowl watched the Autobot leader for a moment, silently comparing him to his predecessor.

“Ja-Triaxial,” Prowl said, turning to Jazz, feeling almost urgent. Jazz looked at him expectantly. Prowl struggled to speak. “On my desk,” he managed at last. “There's–”

Optimus began to speak. Prowl glanced up at him, almost glad of the interruption.

Formless words on the tip of Prowl’s tongue, the doorwinger turned to Jazz– but the mech had already left. Oddly bothered, Prowl turned once more to the Prime.

 

Having transformed and rolled out following a few words of rote encouragement from the Prime, the convoy quickly passed through Iacon and out into the flat expanse of Cybertron’s terrain.

The sun had long since set, and midnight had come and gone. There were hours still to go until Praxus, but at the speed they took, and with one or two breaks, they would reach the city-state before evening the next day.

Left with only mindless driving and adding the final touches to the schedule, Prowl’s conscious mind lingered on the datapad he'd only barely managed to tell Jazz about. He had to assume the mech had found it by now, had probably even broken the firewall and read it.

Telling Jazz about the datapad was a last second decision, and certainly a cop-out alternative to telling his story to the saboteur face to face. Prowl was already regretting it.

 

The walls of Praxus were tall, and the city’s forcefield dome shimmered in the reddish light of the setting sun. Though still in his altmode, Prowl could see the image in his mind’s eye, coloured from the sensor image his doorwings allowed.

The gates opened to allow them in, and Prowl entered his home city for the first time in centuries.

The Autobot signals they all emitted meant that the pedestrians gave them a wide berth. Still, the drive to the Praxus Centre took well over an hour. Ultra Magnus led the way through the wide double doors with twenty-seven minutes to the deadline.

Prowl had never been within the political center of Praxus, but the Centre held similar opulence to the former seat of the Senate in Iacon (which Prowl _had_ been in during its hay day, perhaps a few too many times).

Bluestar was waiting, looking about as arrogant as any senator Prowl had ever seen.

“Less than an hour to spare,” the Praxian politician said as Ultra Magnus stepped forward. As per the protocol Prowl had set, half the convoy (now turned security) unit broke off to stand by the entrance. The Praxian security guards said nothing, though they cast mildly intimidated glances.

“I am here, and prepared to speak, before the deadline you set,” Ultra Magnus said flatly. “Are your speakers prepared?”

“Of course. Initial negotiations will take place in two hours.”

The Autobot SIC inclined his helm. “Then I will wait.” He turned to Prowl. “Take half the unit and settle our lodgings. I will remain here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Prowl had eventually chosen a hotel that had housed politicians before. He had rented several rooms, the centermost of which would house Ultra Magnus.

Despite the fact that Prowl had called in to reserve the rooms less than twenty-four hours before, he still conducted a sweep for bugs and devices. The unit was pleasantly professional, conducting their portions of the sweep without audible complaint.

At last the sweep was over. Prowl opened a link to Ultra Magnus. The link buzzed briefly before the Autobot SIC accepted the link.

::Ultra Magnus,:: the Autobot second said by way of greeting.

::I have swept the rooms, sir, they're clean. Do you have any specific orders for us?::

::Remain there,:: Ultra Magnus replied. ::Rest. It's been a long day for all of us. The initial negotiations should take no more than six hours.::

::Of course, sir.::

Prowl relayed the Autobot commander’s orders to the unit, and they all sagged with relief. Within minutes every mech had retreated to their rooms– three to a room, but for Ultra Magnus.

Stepping into the room he shared with two others (Haring and Orache, if he remembered correctly) Prowl made a beeline for the berth furthest from the door.

The lights were off, Haring and Orache already dead to the world on berths that held fluffier mattresses than any of them were accustomed to.

With no one around (or awake) to judge, Prowl flung himself facedown onto his berth, sighing as the soft comforter caressed his plating. Doorwings waving in the air, Prowl pillowed his helm in his arms and fell asleep for the first time in over thirty-six hours.

 

“Hey, boss?”

Prowl looked up from his datapad to take in the Autobot before him. “Yes?”

The mech (Redlight? Probably Redlight) rubbed the back of his neck. “There's a cafe down the road a bit, and we were thinking of sending one of the boys down to get something for the lot of us.”

Prowl glanced at the Autobots scattered about the Centre’s hall. They all stood at attention, reduced to mere security guards by the circumstances, but a few cast discreet glances Prowl’s way.

Considering it, Prowl let out a sigh. “I'll go,” he said. “Give me your orders.” He held up a servo to halt the surge of chatter. “One. At. A time.”

The cafe was only a couple streets down. Prowl hadn't made much of a habit of leaving the base back in Iacon– the walk was a refreshing change.

Prowl pushed open the door, the antique bell above it jingling neatly. The place wasn't too full, the chatter at a pleasant, low white-noise. Stepping up to the counter, Prowl placed his orders. The barista let out a small laugh and said, “Feeding an army?”

“Practically,” Prowl replied, flashing a stiff, polite smile.

“Takeaway? Cubes?”

Prowl nodded as he held out his credit chip. “Please.”

The next several minutes were spent watching the barista and his coworker pull together the drinks. Some inane song played over the speaker systems, not unpleasant but not fitting to Prowl’s admittedly unrefined tastes. At last, they packed the cubes together into a takeaway container and handed it to Prowl.

Prowl tucked the container under his arm, pulling open the door. The bell jingled, echoed by the buzz of Prowl’s comm. link. Stepping out into the street, Prowl hovered by a street pole as he opened the link.

::This is Prowl,:: he said, gaze flicking over the street.

::Hey kiddo.::

Prowl’s spark froze in his chest. ::Barricade?:: The word tasted like oil on his tongue. Prowl looked about the street frantically, as though he might see his mentor somewhere there. Nothing out of the ordinary, though– pedestrians walking by, some drivers on the road. A grey Praxian stood against the wall nearby, helm bent over a datapad. Prowl’s optics lingered blindly on the mech as he said, ::Why are you calling?::

::Can't I just call to hear your voice, kid?::

::No.::

A laugh huffed over the comm. link accompanied by a buzz of static. ::Okay, okay.:: A sigh. ::Frag, I swore to myself I wouldn't call you up but, heh, couldn't help it.::

::What is this about?:: Prowl clenched his jaw.

Another static-laced sigh. ::I have a lot of regrets, Prowl. I regret not trying harder to take you with me, and I regret the way I handled myself last time I saw you.::

Prowl ducked his helm, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

::I wish I could pull you out, kiddo, I really do. Primus dammit, if I'd known you were in Praxus earlier I would have called you then.::

A frown tugged at Prowl’s lips. ::What?::

::Yeah, sorry kiddo, playin’ the vague game isn't that nice of me.:: Another sign, long and slow. ::I just wanted to say goodbye, okay? Frag it all, I wish I could save you but this was the best I could fraggin’ do.:: Anger rose in Barricade’s voice. Prowl could see the mech in his mind’s eye, running a servo over his helm.

:: _Save_ me?::

::Sorry, kiddo. Love you.:: The link clicked shut.

Prowl’s processor raced, his spark beating fast. There was something happening, something going to happen. He had to know, he had to get to–

High above Prowl’s helm, the shield dome flickered and descended. Far away on the clustered horizon line, airborne specks appeared, growing fast. The dopplering shriek of seeker engines reached Prowl’s audials.

There were mere seconds to act, and Prowl had moments to decide what to do. In the end, he did the only thing he could; he dropped the takeaway container and darted forward, grabbing the grey Praxian by the arm and pulling him to the ground.

“What-”

Less than a hundred meters away, the first bomb fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I want to know how many of you saw this coming.  
> Second of all, I want to know what you think will happen, so I can not change anything I've written but bask in the pleasure of your comments, and also see whether I've balanced predictability with suspense well enough, in terms of plot and character.  
> For those wondering, it's been about ten months since Prowl and Jazz first met, and Prowl's been stationed at Iacon for seven to eight months.


	13. Chapter 13

“What's happening!”

Prowl stood up from the ground, staring down the street where the bomb had blown.

_Praxus Centre._

“Sir! Sir, what's happening!”

Prowl looked to the grey mech, who'd clambered to his pedes. “Decepticon attack,” Prowl said before running off down the street towards the Centre.

The opulent building was half-rubble, the westward side completely gone. Prowl brought up the building plans on his HUD as he rushed inside, pinging Ultra Magnus’s comm. repeatedly as he scanned for spark signals.

“Captain Prowl!”

Orache came from another room, covered in dust, a groaning Praxian hanging off his shoulder. Prowl went to the Autobot’s side, helping guide the Praxian down to sit against a pillar

“Where is Ultra Magnus,” Prowl asked earnestly, turning his gaze on Orache.

“Conference room B3, but–”

Slag, that was in the western wing. Orache grabbed Prowl’s arm before he could leave.

“Captain! What's going on?” A trained soldier, the Autobot’s words were far less frantic than the grey Praxian’s had been, but his optics still glowed with a fearful confusion.

“Decepticons. Inform the others, tell them to gather here.”

The door to conference room B3 hung from its hinges. Inside, much of the ceiling had fallen in. Prowl heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the Autobot SIC by the far right wall, fallen to the ground but stirring. A slab of concrete lay over Ultra Magnus’s back.

“Commander!” Prowl rushed to Ultra Magnus’s side. “The Decepticons,” Prowl said before Ultra Magnus could ask. “They managed to shut down the shield dome. Seekers are dropping bombs.”

With no small amount of effort, Prowl managed to heave the thick concrete from Ultra Magnus’s plating. The commander made no sound as Prowl dragged the slab off, though judging by the dents it must have been rather painful.

“Have you contacted Iacon?” Ultra Magnus asked as Prowl helped him to his pedes.

“Not yet, sir.”

Ultra Magnus straightened, grimacing. “We’ll send a mech to find a communications hub, get the word to Iacon.” He looked about the room, and Prowl sent out his own scan. There were no other spark signals.

“What about rescue efforts, sir?”

The Autobot commander turned a regretful gaze on Prowl. “They'll have to wait until this is over.”

Prowl inclined his helm. “Of course, sir.”

The Autobot unit had gathered in the dusty lobby, blasters out and plating flared. Somewhere out in the city, another bomb fell.

“Haring, Redlight, Orache, and Bolton, you're with Prowl,” Ultra Magnus said firmly, reassuring any unsettled soldier with the surety of his voice. “Trope, get to a comms hub and alert Iacon, request aid. First Aid–” The Autobot SIC paused, looking down at the medic. First Aid wore a stoic expression, but everyone could see his uncertainty. “Go with Trope,” Ultra Magnus said at last. The medic nodded.

“The rest of you,” Ultra Magnus continued, “With me.” He turned to Prowl. “Do what you can, Prowl. There is no plan of action but what you make.”

“Yes, sir.”

Prowl turned to the mecha he'd been assigned. They looked back at him, awaiting orders. Some part of Prowl’s mind was panicking, but that was a very small part. He was a soldier –a tactician– first (and a Praxian second).

“Alright,” he said, pushing down that panicked voice. “Let's move.”

 

Three hours later, and Prowl was beginning to wonder if this would ever end.

Before technology had advanced to blasters, rifles, and bombs, battles took far less time to finish. With combat limited to what one could do with a sword or bow, mechs reached their physical limits before too long. But now battles could go on for days, for months even, as mecha took potshots at each other across some expanse. Trench warfare wasn't present in the war Prowl now participated in, but he was well aware of how the Poly-States War had changed warfare as an art.

It was ugly. Prowl despised it as much as he admired it.

This, though, was not so much a battle as it was shooting fish in a barrel. Prowl did not like being the fish in such a scenario, but here he had no choice.

At first there were screams at every bomb-drop. Someone, somewhere, expressing their shock and fear with a cry. No screams anymore, though. Prowl told himself it was because his people were getting better at hiding.

(Fish in a barrel.)

The Decepticon air squadrons made sweep after sweep, dropping bombs again and again. The bombs did not have very large blast radiuses, but they demolished any area they fell upon. Prowl dared not try to calculate the current (and rising) body count.

Leaning out from his cover, Prowl fired at the seeker shrieking overhead. The shot struck true, and the flier went down a few hundred meters away.

Order had long since devolved. The Autobots that Ultra Magnus had assigned to Prowl were somewhere around, but he had no idea where. Everything was in shambles; buildings burning, bodies everywhere. The sky was thick with dust and smoke, but the seekers kept flying.

Prowl did not hate easily. He felt anger, yes– far too often. Resentment as well, though that usually faded once his temper had recovered. He despised quite a lot of mecha for various different reasons. But he had never known himself to honestly and truly hate anyone, or anything, so strongly as others seemed to.

But looking up at the sky, at the purple brands on every seeker’s wings, Prowl felt something hot rise up in his throat, so thick he thought he might choke on it. His spark pulsed with a loathing more intense than anything he'd ever felt before. Prowl felt like screaming out his fury, his hatred.

For a moment the hate flickered to a grief that seized Prowl’s spark in a vice. So many dead, so many still dying. Prowl’s city, crushed beneath the heel of the Decepticons.

Every person seeks to hide from their pain, however. Prowl’s pain ran deep, gouged at his spark. He ached with grief for his city. He hated this feeling. He hated this pain.

Bowing his helm, Prowl shuddered as he forced the pain down and turned it into anger. Anger was better; it turned his pain outwards and inflicted it on others.

And still that choking heat lying under his tongue.

A seeker flew overhead, and Prowl took it down with three well placed shots. The mech exploded mid-air, one of Prowl’s shots having struck the bombs he carried. Pieces of the seeker rained down, gruesome and horrifying. Prowl stared dispassionately as the flier’s sightless helm lying twenty-two meters away.

Somewhere in the city, another bomb dropped. More sparks extinguished. Prowl stared at the disembodied helm, feeling a sneer curl his lips.

Prowl hated them. Every last one of them. The sensation sat under his spark like a monster, roaring and writhing. Choking him.

He hated the Decepticons. All of them. Every last fragging mech with that damn purple brand. There would be no Decepticons by the end of this war, Prowl resolved. He would eradicate them. He refused to live in a world where the Decepticons won.

A silent scream rose in Prowl’s throat as hate turned to grief for a moment (just a moment).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the shortest chapter in the fic so far, because I didn't feel up to writing hours of one-sided combat. This is, as you can tell, a turning point for Prowl.  
> On another note, I have drawn a scene from a future chapter, except I drew it with my humanized!Transformers designs because I was and am too lazy to attempt the boxes and kibble of Transformers. I would love to post it up and show you guys, so if you want, I'll add it to the end of the next chapter, thus providing you all with a small window of context-less spoilers.  
> So yeah, shortest chapter that I'm somewhat dissatisfied with. Please comment both your opinion on the chapter and whether you want to see the slight-spoiler of an art that I drew.


	14. Chapter 14

By the time the Autobots arrived, there were no Decepticons to fight. Seven hours of tantamount siege passed before the seekers flew back southeast, leaving a smoking city for the Autobots to arrive at an hour later.

Tents had been set up near the southwestern gate, the only entrance to the city that was more building than rubble. Relief efforts were only just beginning, but reports from the Autobot fliers’ recon said that more than eighty percent of the city was ruined. Countless people were dead. Prowl wondered if they would ever know the exact number.

With the Praxian system of local government in shambles (you can't send in the firefighters when they're the ones buried in the rubble) it was down to the Autobots to coordinate relief efforts. Every single Praxian who wasn't dead or dying in the makeshift medbays had volunteered to help.

Prowl worked with them. He knew, of course, that his skills would be better spend coordinating the relief efforts rather than actively participating in them.

But he needed this. He needed to see each body as they unearthed them, each tear-streaked face as they rescued them. Ultra Magnus made no move to dissuade Prowl of his participation, which Prowl was glad for; he wouldn't have had the courage to do this if he'd actually been given a way out.

It was paradoxical, odd, strange. Prowl’s spark twisted a hundred different ways. His thoughts were blurred, nothing clear except the goal to save them.

Kneeling on the dusty ground, patella grinding into the crumbling concrete, Prowl heaved at the chunks of heavy stone that had blessedly fallen in such a way as to create a pocket just beneath, saving the mecha below from being crushed.

Something shifted, and someone under the stones shrieked.

“It's alright,” Prowl called as he nodded to a mech to steady the stones. “It's alright,” he repeated softly.

It took them a few more minutes to get the mechs out– and just in time, the tiny pocket imploding as the last bot crawled out.

There were tears of relief, of joy, of fear. Prowl wished he could join them as they mourned together, but he had yet to shed a single tear. There was too much to do, and nowhere to be alone, anyway.

“Excuse me? You're Prowl, right?”

Prowl turned to see a grey Praxian. It was the mech he'd pulled to the ground at the very beginning of the attack. As much as Prowl disliked using trite expressions, that felt like a lifetime ago.

“I am.” Prowl dusted off his plating, doorwings flicking.

“Smo–Commander Smokescreen sent me.” The mech twisted his fingers together. “Says he wants to see you.”

Prowl nodded. “Very well.”

The roads were still being cleared, but the path back to the southwest gates and their cluster of tents was fairly free of rubble. Pebbles and debris bumped and rocked under Prowl’s wheels, and some part of his mind hoped that he hadn't driven over any body parts.

“I'm Bluestreak, by the way,” the grey Praxian said once they'd transformed at the perimeter.

Prowl inclined his helm. “Pleased to meet you.” He would have said something about wishing it were under better circumstances, but it didn't feel appropriate.

Judging by the flicker of regret in his optic, Bluestreak was thinking the same thing Prowl was. “You too,” he said, flashing a tiny, wan smile.

Smokescreen was inside the makeshift command post, talking over relief methods with Optimus Prime, Ultra Magnus, and the few surviving Praxian leaders.

Prowl caught his CO’s optic from the edge of the entrance. Smokescreen excused himself and made his way over, stepping outside the tent.

“You wished to see me, sir?” Prowl asked, settling into parade rest.

“I did, thank you for coming back.” Smokescreen paused and pursed his lips. Concern glowed in his optics, mixed with compassionate grief. “You've been working on relief efforts for hours, and you were in a seven-hour long battle just before that. You're covered in dents and dust, and I think you have shrapnel sticking into your side.” He hesitated a moment before placing a servo on Prowl’s shoulder. “Get to the medics, get fixed, fuel up, and rest. I don't want one of my mechs dying from exhaustion and energon loss.”

Despite realizing the logic behind Smokescreen’s words, Prowl shook his helm. “I can't, there's more–”

“There's nothing you can do right now that others can't, Prowl. You'll serve-” a hitch, a brief click of static- “You’ll serve our city better when you're at your best.”

Prowl’s helm bowed without his permission. The servo on his shoulder squeezed reassuringly.

“Yes, sir,” Prowl said quietly. Smokescreen smiled, small and wan, like Bluestreak.

“Go on, Prowl, I've got Ratchet waiting for you.”

In one of the many medical tents, Ratchet directed Prowl to a foldout cot. Prowl sat down, grimacing at both the creak of the cot and the twinge in his side.

“Shouldn't you be working on others?” Prowl asked. “As CMO there are many who require your expertise.”

“Smokescreen asked me to treat you, Prowl,” the medic said gruffly. “If there's a big emergency they'll call me.”

Too tired to continue the argument, Prowl sank into silence.

“It's a wonder you could transform,” Ratchet grunted, working out a shred of metal from Prowl’s side. “Must've hurt a lot.”

“There were other things to attend to,” Prowl deflected. He stared at the far wall, watching the thick tarp fabric ripple.

Ratchet grunted again. “Hard to save mechs when you aren't at the top of your game.”

Anger swelled under Prowl’s tongue. “I don't need your input, medic,” he snapped, casting a cold glare at the white and red Autobot.

Ratchet had a reputation among the Autobots for his fantastically fiery temper. Prowl had not had much cause to interact with the medical staff at all during his time in Iacon, but for a few incidents, but he'd witnessed a couple Ratchet the Hatchet Tantrums.

Prowl was expecting a similar reaction to his barb– something sharp that he himself could react to, let the anger in both of them rise until Prowl’s own fury doused his grief.

But Ratchet didn't react as he wanted. The old medic only sighed. “Look, kid…”

Prowl fought off the flinch.

Ratchet pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment before continuing his work welding a patch to the hole in Prowl’s side. “You just lost your home city. It's painful, hurts worse than anything you've felt before. You want to save them, because you're a cop and you were always meant to keep them safe. I get it, kid, I do.” He looked up and met Prowl’s cold glare with a compassionate expression. “It'll take you a long time to get back up from this. Hell, maybe you never do. But right here, right now? You have to make sure you're taking care of yourself before you take care of other people, got it?”

The words registered, and maybe some part of Prowl understood, but he only nodded to appease the medic. “Yes,” he said.

Ratchet nodded slowly. “I'm always gonna be there if you need me, kid.” He turned his attention back to the task at hand.

“Okay,” Prowl whispered, and resolved never to take the mech up on the offer.

 

Despite the fact that his tank levels were at 31%, Prowl didn't feel at all hungry. Still, he followed Smokescreen’s orders and retrieved a ration cube from the few dispensers that had been set up in one of the tents.

The only berths were in the medbay, and nearly all of those taken by mechs who needed them. But Prowl wouldn't have tried to recharge in the makeshift HQ anyway.

It took some searching before he found a sad, crumbling building not far from the base’s perimeter. The door hung from its hinges, and the upper two storeys bore gaping holes. But Prowl sought privacy, not comfort, so he ventured inside.

The building was not, thank Primus, a residence, but rather some sort of office. The ground floor had an eerily empty reception area at the entrance, which Prowl quickly walking through. In a room towards the back was a lounge with stained couches and a broken energon dispenser. The whole of the ground floor bore evidence of the wreckage above, but the couches weren't too dirty and it was, above all, quiet.

Prowl sat down on a couch that was dusted white with crumbled concrete from the ceiling. Lifting the ration cube to his lips, the doorwinger forced himself to take a sip.

The energon slithered down his throat and sat heavy in his tank. Nausea thickened Prowl’s throat before he forced down both it and another mouthful of energon.

The minutes crawled by slowly as Prowl forced himself to drink the whole cube. By the end of it he felt just about ready to purge, but his tanks were at 78% and his self-repair systems were starting to rejuvenate him.

Setting the empty cube aside on the floor, Prowl braced his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

“Lookin’ rough, there, mech.”

Prowl’s servos dropped, and he turned a frigid stare on the blue-visored mech standing in the doorway.

Jazz’s helm tilted to the side as he stepped forward into the room. “Sorry to hear about, y’know, all this.” He waved a servo about airily.

“Are you really?” Prowl almost didn't recognize his own voice, it sounded so cold. Flames licked at the inside of his sparkchamber, a cold fury that had yet to explode.

“Am I really sorry? Of course, love. Y’just lost your fraggin’ city, not even I am so cruel as to dig at that wound.” Jazz remained a short distance away, hip cocked against the side of the other couch.

A sneer pulled at Prowl’s lips against his will. “Liar.”

Jazz’s visor flashed, and his expression turned stony. “Oh?” His visor faded from blue to red.

The silence stretched on, until finally Prowl spoke.

“You knew, didn't you?” he whispered. “You knew this was coming.”

The Decepticon’s voice was flat as he said, “I didn't know.”

“Liar!” Prowl’s voice rose. “You’ve been lying to me since the start of this! Of _course_ you knew!” Jazz always knew. Always knew everything while Prowl knew nothing and Prowl hated it.

“I have never told you an outright lie, Prowl, and you know it.”

“Do I?” Somehow he'd gotten to his pedes, though Prowl didn't remember doing so. His spark beat fast in its chamber, and his ventilations quickened. “I know _nothing_ about you! You are Jazz, Megatron’s best saboteur, his best infiltrator, his best _spy_ second only to Soundwave. That is all I know. You are a _Decepticon_!”

“You really think I would keep something like this from you?” Jazz shook his helm. “I would never let something like this happen to you, Prowl.”

“Something like losing my entire city? Of _course_ you would! You've been manipulating me ever since we met, trying to _break_ me!” Black and white doorwings flared wide, quivering.

Jazz took a step forward, then another. His servos were held out as one would when approaching a wild animal. “You know I would never hurt you like this.” His voice was low, soft, brushing against Prowl’s wings.

“Stop _lying_ to me!” Prowl’s fury kept turning to pain in his chest, and he fought to maintain his anger.

“I ain't lyin’, Prowler. You ain't thinkin’ straight.” Jazz was close, too close. Prowl shook with the force of his anger (of his pain). “We both know I wouldn't do this. You remember, right?”

The spar they'd had just a few days before flashed through Prowl’s mind. “You're too _obsessed_ to kill me! You would do anything to break me to get what you want!”

Jazz shook his helm slowly. “I’d never hurt you like this. You've done somethin’ to me, love.” He let out a rueful huff of laughter. “I’d do anything to keep you safe.”

“ _Stop lying_!” Prowl lashed out in his anger. The world spun, and then Jazz had him pinned to the floor. The silver mech forced Prowl’s servos to the floor, pinning them beside his helm in a vice grip.

“I’m not, Prowler.” Jazz’s voice was soft, softer than Prowl had heard it before. But Prowl did not care. Could not feel anything but the pain of his wounds and Jazz’s vice hold, could hardly hear over the rush of energon in his audials.

Words gone, Prowl writhed against the Decepticon’s weight. He thrashed and arched, that agonizing mix of fury-pain-fear consuming his spark. Jazz remained silent, riding the waves of Prowl’s struggles with ease. Prowl stared up at the red band of Jazz’s visor and hated him.

When Prowl’s weary frame became too exhausted to struggle any longer, his pain turned to the next outlet. Throwing back his helm, Prowl screamed.

Completely silent, Prowl shuddered as his soundless scream petered away to sobs. His optics were dry, and some part of Prowl grieved that he still could not shed tears for his city.

Somewhere along the line Jazz had stopped holding Prowl down, his grip loosening. Prowl had no strength to break free however; his energy had begun to drain faster than energon from a broken cube.

Prowl went limp, staring away at the far wall. His chest felt cold and empty without his fury to hold him up. Slow, shuddering breaths had Prowl’s chest moving up and down.

Jazz stood, leaving Prowl cold without the other’s presence. Then strong arms lifted Prowl up, bringing him the short distance to the dirty, dusty couch. Jazz laid Prowl on the cushions gently before once more extracting his warmth.

“Go to sleep, love,” Jazz murmured. Prowl felt too tired to dredge up any emotions from his spark, and he stared dispassionately into the Decepticon’s red visor.

A servo came to rest on the side of Prowl’s helm, a silver thumb brushing over the arch of his cheekbone. Jazz sighed with something that seemed almost like regret. But Prowl was too tired to think on it.

“Goodbye, Prowler.” Soft lips pressed against Prowl’s chevron, leaving a warmth that the air leached away far too quickly.

Prowl fell into a blissful blackness, shivering just slightly as Jazz left him, alone, in the cold, empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be going back into school soon, and when that happens I'll be stretching update times out to once every two weeks.  
> On another note, I hope this chapter lives up to the hype. I also hope that the next chapter will be unexpected, and I want to hear what you guys think will happen just so I can smile because you're either close to right or very wrong.  
> So comment please, they motivate and inspire me.


	15. Chapter 15

**Six days after the Fall of Praxus.**

Every day they found more bodies– some were living, but most were not.

Prowl crouched down to take the servo of the mech they'd unearthed. His spark was guttering– the rubble had been keeping him alive as much as it had been pinning him down. Without the pressure closing his wounds, he was losing energon far too fast for the medics to save him.

“There were bombs,” the mech whispered, optics flickering and fading. “The city, it was burning.” He coughed. Energon stained his lips.

“The fires are fading,” Prowl said softly. “We will rebuild.” The lie sat heavy on his tongue.

The mech struggled to keep his optics open as he said, “My mate, is he okay? Did he make it to safety?”

Prowl pursed his lips, glancing up at the other Autobots standing a short distance away. “He's safe.”

The nameless Praxian sighed and went limp. His plating began to grey.

Prowl crossed the mech’s servos above his empty sparkchamber. Standing up, Prowl turned to the others.

“Let's keep moving.”

**Three weeks after the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl looked up from his energon as the footsteps stopped beside him. Bluestreak smiled wanly.

“Hey, Prowl,” he said. He gestured to the red badge on his chest. “What do you think?”

“You joined up?” Prowl shouldn't have been surprised; most of the survivors had signed up for the Autobots. It was terrifying how small the number was. It was terrifying that all of them would sign up before the month was out.

Instant radicalization.

Bluestreak sat down on the bench, bracing his servos by his knees. “It seemed the most logical choice.” He flashed a brief, wry smirk.

“What will you go into?”

The grey Praxian shrugged. “Not sure yet. I don't have any military experience at all, but… I was thinking sniper? If I'm good enough.” He licked his lips nervously. “I don't think I could ever be down in the middle of battle.” Memories flickered in the Bluestreak’s optics.

Prowl’s hunger faded, but he took a sip of his energon anyway. “I understand.”

Bluestreak took a breath and let it out in a long sigh. “When are you going back to Iacon? I should think your faction needs you and your skills.”

“I know.” Prowl took another sip of his energon. It sank to the bottom of his tanks like sludge.

Sympathy flickered in the newly-recruited Autobot’s gaze. “You have to leave eventually.”

“I know.”

**Five weeks after the Fall of Praxus.**

“I can't support your staying out there anymore,” Smokescreen said. The videoscreen showed him standing, servos braced against the table before him. “We need you here in Iacon.”

Prowl shook his helm. “I can't, there's–”

Smokescreen cut him off. “There's nothing more you can do in Praxus, Prowl.”

“But–”

“I won't hear any more on it.” Smokescreen stood fast, gaze stern. “I know you are mourning Praxus. We all are– and I understand your grief more than most Autobots. But we need you here.” His face remained firm, but his optics flickered with sympathy.

Prowl’s helm bowed, and his servos clenched at his sides. “Yes, sir.”

Smokescreen sighed. “You have seven days to do what you feel needs to be done. Then I want you back in Iacon.”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

The Autobot TacHead only smiled sadly before terminating the call.

**Six weeks after the Fall of Praxus.**

Somehow, Prowl had expected Jazz to be waiting when he got off the shuttle.

Over the past couple months his anger towards the silver mech had faded, though his confusion had not. But they would deal with the argument as they dealt with all things between them; with avoidance and passive-aggressive manipulation.

Opening the door to his room, Prowl was struck first by the thin layer of dust everywhere, and second by the datapad on the desk.

It was not the datapad he'd left there before going out to Praxus– the one he'd just barely managed to tell Jazz about. That, at least, meant Jazz had found that datapad. Prowl wasn't sure how he felt about it.

Picking up the datapad and blowing away the dust, Prowl turned it on. When it became apparent that there was a considerable amount of security protecting the datapad’s contents, Prowl drew out his hardline and plugged in.

A few minutes of enjoyably difficult code-cracking later, and the datapad’s contents were laid out before him. There was only one thing: a message. It was not typed with the datapad’s keyboard, but rather, written with a stylus. The handwriting was cramped, the letters tall but thin, and the words spaced close together. The date on the note placed its creation as being four days after the attack on Praxus.

_Hey, Prowl. Sorry to leave you on such a sour note, but duty calls in the form of a persistent tyrant warlord. I can't say when I'll see you again, so don't wait up for me.  
-J_

Prowl was unable to completely identify the myriad of emotions that surged through him, but the gesture he made spoke for itself: he threw the datapad across the room so hard that the screen cracked.

**Two years after the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl bent his helm over Bluestreak’s, his body angled in such a way as to hide the grey mech from view of the room.

Prowl was not a social mech. Just under three years in Iacon, and he still found the company wanting. But Bluestreak was a friend, or something close to one, so he'd accompanied the Praxian to the party. As it turned out, that was the right decision.

Bluestreak shuddered, and Prowl wound an arm over his shoulders.

“Come on,” he said, barely audible to himself over the music and chatter. “Let's get out of here.”

Prowl guided Bluestreak from the rec. room, leading him a few halls away before urging him to sit. Bluestreak scraped down the wall, doorwings flared and legs splayed over the floor. He stared at the opposite wall blindly.

Sitting down a short distance from the sniper, Prowl waited. The minutes passed, until at last Bluestreak began to move again. He turned a weary stare on Prowl.

“I thought I would be okay,” he whispered.

“I know.”

“It's been two fragging years! Why can't I–” Bluestreak covered his face with his hands. “Why can't I just–”

Prowl took a chance and reached out, pulling the other’s servos down. “It's okay,” Prowl said quietly. “I understand.” He withdrew, unwilling to let the contact continue. “Let's find somewhere quieter.”

Bluestreak nodded. “Shooting range? Let's see if I'm better than you yet.” He smiled wanly.

“Alright, then.” Prowl carefully did not think of an amber-eyed mech with thin doorwings offering a shooting game.

**Seventeen years after the Fall of Praxus.**

The siege on Uraya was going very poorly. For the Autobots, that is. The Decepticons were far too close to winning. Seven months, and still no way to get anyone in or out of the besieged city.

Prowl sat at his console long after his shift had ended, processor working hard.

The army stationed at Uraya was well-trained, but they were trapped by the cushion of civilians between them and the Decepticons. Unless they received proper strategy, any attempt at retaliation would fail. No units could be spared from other cities to give Uraya aid.

They would have to fight it on their own.

Prowl had several strategies that Uraya could use, of course. But communications were jammed, and what little intel they had on the city’s state was limited to outward surveillance. They just couldn't find a way to get anyone inside.

There was someone, of course, who could do it in with his eyes shut. Or his visor offline– Prowl had never known whether he'd even had optics behind that thing.

But he was not an option. (Blue visor and sharp grin and a farewell kiss on the forehead– but Prowl refused to remember it.)

Prowl worked and worked, trying to find a way.

A servo on his shoulder made Prowl jump, almost made him reach for his knife. But Prowl stifled that instinct as he turned his helm to Smokescreen.

“Sir?”

“Stand down on those strategies, Prowl.” Smokescreen’s expression was solemn. “The Decepticons have claimed Uraya.”

Prowl unplugged from his console and dismissed his formulated strategies.

**Thirty-four years after the Fall of Praxus.**

“Kalis needs a new Tactical SIC,” Smokescreen said, forearms braced on his desk. “The front out there has been brutal, and they need someone good.” He pursed his lips. “I'm sending you.”

Prowl shouldn't have been surprised (why else would Smokescreen call him in?) but somehow he still managed it. “Sir?”

The TacHead spread his servos. “You're an excellent tactician, Prowl, one of the best. The hierarchy here in Iacon is a little too stagnant for you to move up the ranks anytime soon. Kalis will give you that opportunity.”

“Thank you, sir.” Prowl’s doorwings twitched downward.

Smokescreen smiled sincerely. “The shuttle to Kalis is leaving in four days.” He held out a servo to shake, smile becoming wry. “It's been a pleasure working with you, Prowl.”

Prowl shook his CO’s servo firmly. “And you, sir.”

“How about you, me, and Bluestreak have a drink tonight to celebrate? We Praxians have to stick together.”

“Of course, sir.”

**Sixty-one years after the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl worked through the reports quickly, processor churning through them two at a time. Each piece of useable intel was filed away for use (and every typo marked in red).

Each report was given barely a glance in terms of Prowl’s conscious attention before he relegated them to the processor threads.

The work was soothing in its monotony, and Prowl let himself sink into his own processor, ignoring the world around him (a world that ignored him in kind).

Then something caught on his processor like string on a hook. Prowl’s optics flashed online as he brought back the report he'd dismissed.

Prowl scanned through it at a more conventional pace, optics taking on a glazed shine as his focus turned inwards again.

‘An unidentified, silver speedster-frame entered the lab at 21:34 and left at 22:19. At 22:31 surveillance was halted and infiltration initiated.’

Opening the file in full even as he set the flow of reports churning once again, Prowl flicked through the surveillance photos. Skipping over the timestamps, Prowl settled on the photos taken at 21:34.

The quality was grainy, but the colours were there. The scene progressed in parts; a silver alt driving up to the low, grey building. The mech transforming. The mech entering the building. Prowl stared at the unknown bot’s back, wondering, wondering. He skipped to 22:19.

The door opening. The mech stepping out. Standing there. Tilting his helm. Transforming and driving off.

Prowl flicked back to the image of the mech standing in the doorway, helm tilted. His visor glowed red in the grainy photo, his plating just barely reflecting the starlight. Prowl stared at it for a long time, feeling the mech’s name push at his processor.

That visor should be blue.

Prowl banished the file abruptly, doorwings twitching. He threw himself back into his work and did not think of a blue visor, and a soft voice saying, “Go to sleep, love.”

**Eighty-six years after the Fall of Praxus.**

“So you can do it?”

It had been pure chance that Prowl found this mech. A scientist, a neutral, and an absolute genius, Mesothulas was everything Prowl had been looking for.

The purple and grey scientist was eccentric to say the least, and a few of the projects Prowl saw lying about the lab looked questionably legal. But Prowl wasn't here to care about the ethicality of Mesothulas’s work.

“Of course!” Mesothulas rubbed his servos together, optics shining over his mask. “Stasis bullets! A fascinating concept, and one I am sure I can turn to reality.”

Prowl nodded. “Good.”

“Might I ask why you aren't having your Autobots scientists do this for you?” Mesothulas moved over to a flat table littered with instruments. He snatched a datapad from a table and began to write notes with a stylus.

Standing in a stiff parade rest, Prowl glanced about the room. “The resources can't be spared on a project deemed unecessary.”

“So you come to me, a humble neutral?” Mesothulas glanced up, meeting Prowl’s optics and winking. “How naughty.”

Prowl’s expression turned stony. Unbidden, a memory rose up. _“I don't think I've heard you say my name enough. It's ‘cause you don't want us to get caught, yeah? Heh, naughty.”_ Prowl shook his helm just slightly to dispel the wispy image of a red visor and wide smirk.

“I am prepared to pay a reasonable sum for your consultancy.”

“Is that what you're calling it?” Mesothulas let out a huff of laughter. “Well, I don't exactly have a going rate, but for you…” Red optics raked over Prowl’s frame. Mesothulas gave no effort to hide the intent behind his gaze. “I'm willing to give a discount.”

Well, that was interesting. And unexpected. “Acceptable,” Prowl said flatly.

Mesothulas had bent over his datapad, stylus flying across its surface. “Can I interest you in a drink? Something to commemorate the beginning of our… partnership.” He lingered over the word, turning a significant look on Prowl.

Prowl stared at the scientist. This was… Prowl didn't know what this was, or how he felt about it.

“No, thank you,” he said, and hoped his uncertainty didn't show. “I should be getting back.”

“Maybe next time,” Mesothulas said easily.

Prowl left at a pace that felt too slow.

**Eighty-nine years after the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl crossed his arms over his chest, staring dispassionately down at the prisoner before him.

“May I ask again why I am here?” Prowl turned a cold stare on the SpecOps head, Redrider.

“He's got data we need, but he won't give it up. His firewalls are too good for the mechs I've got on base to crack.” Redrider matched Prowl’s flat tone with one of his own.

Prowl’s doorwing twitched. “And you can't employ your less civilized methods? Or even do it yourself?”

“I wanted to see how you would do.”

SpecOps, always so paranoid. Prowl’s lip curled into a sneer. “Well, if you insist.”

“It's actually an order.”

“You aren't my CO.”

Prowl knelt beside the Decepticon prisoner. The mech was dented and damaged, but only from capture. A quick check of the report Redrider had sent revealed that this mech was Decepticon Ops, sent to retrieve intel.

Drawing out his hardline, Prowl forcefully opened the mech’s hardline cover and plugged into the port. The Decepticon did not flinch, but his optics tightened.

His firewalls were, indeed, impressive. But Prowl’s were better, and his processor more than capable of mounting an attack.

The Decepticon made no sound when Prowl began, but by the time Prowl was through his firewalls the grounder’s servos were clenched, and low grunts came from his lips, which pressed tight together.

Prowl fought off the mech’s defences with ease as he traversed the inner workings of his processor. Prowl made no effort to cause wanton destruction, but neither did he put much care into reducing pain.

This was a Decepticon, after all. They did not deserve such mercy.

Prowl pulled droves of intel from the mech’s databanks. Most of it was fairly useable, though some would have to be acted on before Decepticon Ops realized their mech had been captured.

But there was something else Prowl wanted to know, as well.

:Have you seen him?: Prowl asked over the hardline, letting the hack fade to another processor thread.

The Decepticon could give no words, only the sense of pain and confusion.

Prowl flashed an image of a silver mech with a red visor. :Him, have you seen him?: He eased off the attack slightly to give the mech enough relief to communicate.

:I don't know his name, I don't know anything about him.: Pain radiated from the processor Prowl had invaded.

:That's not what I asked.:

A pause, a grunt of pain as Prowl pressed his attack once more before easing.

A highlighted path led Prowl to the mech’s memory banks. The timestamp on the memory was seven years old. Prowl viewed the memory, watched a silver mech walk up to Soundwave, converse with him quietly, and leave.

:Why did you–:

Prowl pulled the clip into his own processor before destroying both it and the mech’s memory of Prowl’s query. The Decepticon gasped in pain.

Having gotten all he needed (and something like what he wanted) Prowl withdrew to his own processor with enough speed and lack of care as to leave the other’s processors fragmented and scattered.

Prowl unplugged his hardline and stood, turning from the groaning prisoner. “I'll send you the intel by tonight.” He walked away from the holding cells at a brisk, professional pace; he still had a shift to finish.

**Ninety-one years after the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl leaned a hip against the edge of the work table. He watched Mesothulas work idly as his processor drifted.

“Do you think you could find a better way of holding prisoners?” Prowl tapped a digit against the metal table, chewing on his lip thoughtfully.

“Why, are your holding cells getting too full?”

Prowl glanced at the scientist briefly before turning his gaze out to the rest of the lab. “Supplies are tight, right now. We can’t spend resources on prisoners.”

“And you can't just kill them?”

Prowl didn't even grant the mech a glare. Mesothulas sighed.

“Alright, well, since you won't do _that_.” The purple mech put down his scalpel, looking down at the project thoughtfully. “A pocket dimension, perhaps? Or a way of storing their sparks and processors without having to maintain the frames?”

“I can't believe the first thing you think of is pocket dimension.” Prowl scoffed.

Mesothulas stood up, coming around the table to stand before Prowl. “Pocket dimensions are a very real thing, my dear. I could explain the science to you if you wish.”

Prowl gave an exaggerated grimace. “And let you bore me into sleep? No.”

A digit poked Prowl’s nose. “Oh hush, you have more than enough intellect to understand the science.”

“But not to appreciate it.”

“Unfortunately.” Mesothulas tilted his helm. “You, my little tactician, were made for greater things.”

Red optics and thin doorwings, a servo about his throat as those familiar-unfamiliar optics glowed with anger. Prowl’s doorwings twitched.

“Come now, sweet thing, don't get caught up in memories.” Mesothulas’s mask snicked back, and he pressed a kiss to Prowl’s lips. Prowl accepted the kiss, letting Mesothulas press him up against the table.

“Don't you have work to do?” Prowl glanced at Mesothulas’s project, lying abandoned on the table.

“It'll keep.” Mesothulas’s servos began to wander downwards. “My muse needs tending to, if I want to keep the inspiration coming.”

Prowl allowed the kisses to deepen and the touches to heat. (This was not the first time Prowl had taken a lover for security rather than true desire, and it likely would not be the last.)

**Ninety-four years after the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl all but ran into the lab, his spark beating too fast and his processor racing. “Mesothulas, I need to speak with you.”

The scientist was up on the first floor landing. “Prowl! How did it go? Did they approve it?”

Oh, right, Aequitas. Prowl stumbled over his words. “Oh, ah, High Command is dubious of the ethics behind a computer that ascertains guilt, but Tyrest is interested.”

“Ha! Ethics.” Mesothulas waved a servo dismissively as he descended the stairs. “Who cares for ethics in wartime!”

Prowl shook his helm roughly. “That-that isn't what I'm here to talk about.”

Mesothulas tilted his helm, reaching the bottom of the stairs and walking towards Prowl. “Oh? What is it, then?”

The words were heavy on Prowl’s tongue. “It's Carpessa,” he managed.

“The neutral city?”

“Not neutral, not a city– not anymore.” Prowl pursed his lips tightly. “It's gone.”

Realization lit in Mesothulas’s optics. “Of course! The Decepti-bomb! A beautiful piece of engineering, that, you don't know how fun it was to make sure every component is traceable only to the Decepticons.” Mesothulas clasped his servos. “I trust it worked to your specifications?”

“It did as bombs are meant to– blow up.” Prowl clenched his jaw. “Investigations has led to it being labeled a Decepticon war crime. All of the survivors have enlisted with the Autobots. Instant radicalization.”

It was all too familiar. Prowl remembered the hate that had smoldered in his chest almost a full century ago. Remembered watching his city burn, his people cry.

This was the same. A different city. A different people.

And a different perpetrator.

Guilt burned in Prowl’s spark. “I-I can't _do this_ anymore, Mesothulas.”

Mesothulas tilted his helm, walking over to Prowl. “Don't be ridiculous, my dear,” he chastised. “You're getting everything you could want! Your commanders are pleased, and your efforts to thwart the Decepticons are succeeding. And I, well I have never been more inspired!”

Prowl shook his helm. “I want it to be different, Mesothulas. _I_ want to be different. Better.” Prowl looked down at his servos, painted a clean, bright white. “Things have changed so much over the past decades and I can't– I _won't_ continue down this path. I want to _change_.”

“It's finished,” Mesothulas said.

“I know, that's what I–”

“No, _it's_ finished.” Mesothulas’s optics glittered. “Come, sweet thing, I want to show you something naughty.”

Perturbed, Prowl followed.

“Now I know we agreed we wouldn't continue this,” Mesothulas said as he led Prowl down a dark-plated corridor. “That the spark-extraction technique was enough for the prison you're building. But I just had to see it brought to life.” He gestured to an open door leading into an poorly lit room.

Prowl stared at the metal doorway standing free in the middle of the room. The air within the empty doorway shimmered unnaturally, colours and shapes visible as if through a murky mirror.

“Tell me you didn't…”

“The Noisemaze.” Mesothulas’s voice was thick with pride. He presented the doorway dramatically, spreading his arms. “A small pocket dimension assembled from matter gaps in the fabric of our universe, harnessed to attack and unravel the senses of any being unfortunate enough to be trapped there.”

He turned bright optics on Prowl. “It solves all the Autobots’ detention problems, my dear. Once within, the Noisemaze utterly destabilizes you. All your senses scream lies at you, lies that you're too stupefied to comprehend. You forget who you are sooner than the ones who put you there will." Every centimeter of Mesothulas’s plating radiated pride as he looked into the softly glowing portal. “So what do you think, sweet thing? Will it make your life a little easier?”

Horror thickened Prowl’s throat, rendering him unable to speak for a moment. “I–” He clenched his fists. “I should go, I'm needed at base to handle the influx of recruits from Carpessa.”

“Of course, of course.” Mesothulas gave no sign he cared, too mesmerized by his own creation.

Prowl left as quickly as he possibly could, resigning himself to the fact that soon, Mesothulas would be nothing more than another memory he'd refuse to remember. (He couldn't let Mesothulas carry on, couldn't let his work reach the Autobots or the Decepticons. Prowl spared no thought on grief.)

**Ninety-four years, six months, and fifteen days after ~~Jazz left~~ the Fall of Praxus.**

Prowl typed in the code to his quarters automatically, his processor occupied with the dilemma that was Mesothulas.

Stepping into his dark room, Prowl signaled the lights to turn on. His optics had just caught on the blue glow in the corner when the lights brightened, revealing shining silver.

Lifting up the knife that had been pilfered from Prowl’s desk, Jazz said with a smirk, “I thought I told you to keep this on you, Prowler.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the actual outline I had for this chapter, copied and pasted.  
> [15: formatted in an x years after the Fall of Praxus time skips  
> -one day after: Prowl won't read the message  
> -one week after: things r tuff, Prowl won't read  
> -two months after: Jazz’s message in italics. Prowl does an angst and like almost yeet it but hm  
> -six months after: Bluestreak ‘hey I wanna be snoipah’ Prowl ‘well fuck fine idk I don't have feelings for people’ Smokescreen ‘ay fam u doin okay?’  
> -two years after: war getting worse  
> -seventeen years after: war getting worse, Prowl transferred to other city  
> -fifty-four years after: is that intel mentioning the Jazz? maybe, idk, Prowl definitely doesn't give a fuck or anything  
> -eighty-one years after: meet Mesothulas. Mesothulas like ‘ay mama lemme smash’ Prowl like ‘ah, no’  
> -ninety-three years after: they banging. Mention the start of the Aequitas project.  
> -ninety-seven years after: mention of Jazz? Mesothulas can soothe those aches. Is that a noisemaze in your pocket or are u just happy to see me?  
> -ninety-seven years, five months, four days after Jazz left: Jazz, what the fuck r u doing here]  
> As you can see, not everything made it, but it's the thought that counts.  
> For the final one with Mesothulas I did steal some dialogue from Sins of the Wreckers, just as I hm stole the bit of a plot.  
> I really would like I hear some feedback on this chapter, I want to know what you guys think of it.


	16. Chapter 16

Prowl stared, too stunned to speak for several long moments. When at last he managed to speak, it was in a whisper.

“What?”

Jazz laughed. “Surprised? I get that.” He stood up from the berth in a single, fluid movement. Flipping the knife end over end in his servo, Jazz sauntered forwards. “Gotta say, though, I pegged you as being more eloque–”

Prowl’s punch caught the Decepticon across the jaw. Jazz recovered quickly, straightening up and lifting a digit to touch the energon leaking from his split lip.

“Okay, so maybe I deserved that.”

Prowl turned on his heel and made for the door. A steely servo seized about his arm, pulling him back.

“Hey, woah, where do you think you're going?” Jazz wore a wry grin. His visor shone blue.

Prowl bared his teeth. “I am not dealing with you right now.”

Jazz’s grin remained, but it became slightly fixed. “Really? Ninety-five years apart and you're gonna brush me off?”

“Ninety-four years, and yes, I am.” Prowl shook off Jazz’s servo and strode to the door. He smacked the access panel, and the door opened. “I have big enough problems without you.”

“Tell me about ‘em then, love. Maybe I can help you out.”

Prowl halted, servo on the doorjamb. Pride and fury warred with practicality (and something else Prowl couldn't quite name). Closing his optics, Prowl sighed and turned.

“Where have you been?” Prowl asked, pinning Jazz with a cold stare.

Jazz pointed the knife at Prowl’s face, smirking. “That's classified.”

Hissing out a short swear, Prowl spun on his heel to continue out the door.

“Primus, Prowler, slow the frag down.” Jazz let out a heavy sigh. “Ugh, damn. Just get over here.”

“I'd rather stay by the door,” Prowl said, but he did step back into the room, allowing the door to slide shut. “So? Where have you been all these years?– and why come back now.”

“That is a two-part question with a two-part answer.” Jazz stepped over to Prowl’s desk, leaning against it casually as he opened one of the drawers.

“Megatron wasn't too happy I ran off for ten months without contact,” Jazz began, waving the servo that held Prowl’s knife. “He's had Soundwave keep me on a damn short leash for decades, jus’ runnin’ around here and there whenever Soundwave tells me.”

Prowl frowned. “What sort of things did you do?”

Jazz huffed, smirking. “Thinkin’ you can peg any o’ the Autobots’ big problems on me?” He shrugged, glancing down into the drawer he'd opened. “I dunno, love, I didn't do too many big missions. I was actually offworld for about forty years, workin’ for Shockwave. Mech’s a cold bastard, but he's good at what he does.”

Prowl stopped himself from probing into exactly what he was doing offworld for Shockwave– there would be time enough to question Jazz, provided the mech didn't run off again.

“So why did you come back?” Why did you come here, that's what Prowl should have said. They weren't in Iacon, after all. Coming back implied… something other than literal meaning.

Jazz reached into the drawer and pulled out a datapad with a cracked screen. He inspected it for a few moments, a small smile turning his lips. “Whole lotta reasons, really.” He stuck the knife into the side of the desk, using his freed servo to turn on the datapad. “But you're a smart mech, love, I'm sure you can guess at least one of them.” He tilted his helm, reading the message scrawled there more than nine decades before.

“You kept this?” Jazz said, looking over at Prowl.

Prowl grit his teeth, doorwings twitching. “I did.”

“Hm.” Jazz placed the datapad back in the drawer and slid the drawer shut. “So, Prowl? What kinda problems have you got weighing on those pretty shoulders?”

Pursing his lips, Prowl looked away. “There's something I need your help with.”

Jazz’s visor flared. “What kinda somethin’?”

“The kind that involves getting rid of someone.” Prowl kept his words clipped, his tone clinical.

(Prowl had grown good at divorcing himself from situations, from people. This was not Mesothulas, his lover, that they spoke of, but a neutral scientist who stood as a threat to Prowl and to the Autobots if left unchecked.)

A huff of laughter fell from Jazz’s lips. “You really have changed,” he murmured thoughtfully. Taking a breath, Jazz spread his servos. “Well, Prowler, since you've asked a favor for my services, I'll be taking a favor in kind one day.”

“That's your price?”

“It is.”

Prowl’s optics closed for a moment (just a moment) as he sighed. “Very well.”

 

Sighing heavily as he began to drift up from sleep, Prowl rolled over onto his front. His digits brushed foreign plating, and Prowl frowned, onlining his optics. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Prowl looked down at Jazz. He had changed since Prowl last saw him, back in Praxus. Not in personality (though perhaps that had changed some) but in appearance. His alt. mode had changed, as hinted by the way his plating lay on his frame, and the silver of his paint was darker, broken by occasional black detailing. It was different (but not bad).

The silver mech lay on his back, visor online as he stared at the ceiling. His digits tapped an idle rhythm on the handle of a vibroblade.

“I thought you'd be gone by now.” Prowl murmured. Jazz’s staying the night hadn't been something they had talked over. No blasé invitations on Prowl’s part, just settling in to get some much needed recharge.

Jazz’s turned his face towards Prowl, smirking. “Maybe I just like watchin’ you sleep.”

Prowl huffed and shook his head. He checked his chronometer– five minutes to go before he had to get up. Prowl groaned, pillowing his helm in his arms.

“So, this Mesothulas character…” Jazz watched Prowl closely, visor dim. “What's your connection to him?”

“That is not relevant to your operation.”

Jazz’s hum resonated in the small room, causing Prowl’s wings to shiver. “So you're close, then,” Jazz deduced, smirk evident in his tone.

Prowl’s lips pulled into a short grimace. “I'm sure you can pose your questions to him later.”

After a moment’s deliberation, Prowl levered himself over Jazz’s frame, managing to catch his balance as he stood up from the berth. It was awkward, but Prowl didn't let that affect him. He strode over to his desk, yanking out his knife from where Jazz had stabbed it into the metal the night before.

“Your shift doesn't start for another fourteen minutes.” Jazz had laced his digits behind his helm, observing the ceiling idly.

“I have a lot of work to do.” Prowl placed the knife in subspace.

Jazz hummed. “Carpessa, right? I heard about that.” He turned a piercing stare on Prowl. “Decepticon Command’s goin’ wild tryna figure out which of their mecha did it. Can't find anything so far.”

“I see.” The guilt of the past few days returned, drilling into Prowl’s spark. He forced it back. “Don't steal anything, and don't go nosing around,” he said to Jazz. “I'll see you tonight.”

 

Prowl transformed outside Mesothulas’s isolated lab. The building sat unassuming and, to all appearances, unoccupied, just like the other buildings standing about.

Opening the door, Prowl stepped inside, pulling the door shut behind him. The lights were on, but that wasn't surprising. Mesothulas often worked long into the night.

Prowl walked through the short hall and into the main lab.

It seemed Jazz had only just arrived a few moments before. Out in the center of the floor, the silver Decepticon tussled with Mesothulas. It was obvious to Prowl’s optics that Jazz, with a smirk on his face and his visor shining red, was merely toying with the scientist.

Both mechs saw Prowl at the same time. Mesothulas lashed out in a punch that Jazz clearly allowed to connect before running towards Prowl.

“Prowl! Thank Primu–”

Taking a step back, Prowl drew out his blaster, aiming it at Mesothulas’s chest. Mesothulas stopped in his tracks, staring.

“What–”

Jazz seized Mesothulas’s arms in a vice grip, effectively immobilizing him. The scientist struggled, kicking at Jazz’s frame to no avail.

“What's going on, Prowl!” Mesothulas turned wide, shocked optics on the doorwinger.

“Follow me,” Prowl said to Jazz, sidestepping the Decepticon and his prisoner. He strode down the hallway that Mesothulas had led him to the night before, pushed open the door that led into a cool, dark room. The Noisemaze gate stood there, still active. It hurt Prowl’s optics to look into it.

Mesothulas dug his heels into the floor in a futile attempt to halt his forced progress. “Woah, hey, wait a minute, what the hell is going on here, Prowl.”

Prowl considered his words carefully as Jazz manhandled Mesothulas over to stand before the Noisemaze. Jazz remained at Mesothulas’s back, holding the scientist’s arms, his own back to the glowing portal.

“You're a threat, Mesothulas,” Prowl said, cold and flat. “I can't let your work continue.”

Surprise glowed in Mesothulas’s optics before fading to something closer to irritation. “Good Primus, this is about your ethics, isn't it! I knew you were upset, but this is going a little far.”

Prowl shook his head. “I am not obligated to explain this to you.”

Mesothulas snorted. “Was it Carpessa? I still don't understand why you're so stricken, Prowl, you asked me to make that bomb.”

Behind Mesothulas, Jazz twitched, tilting his helm and turning a piercing look on Prowl.

“Oh, does your friend not know?” Mesothulas laughed. “I guess you'll have fun explaining that.”

Prowl grimaced, but whatever reply he struggled to dredge up was interrupted by Mesothulas.

“Is it the Noisemaze? Are you too delicate of spark to consider throwing mecha into it?”

At last, something Prowl could reply to. “The Noisemaze is cruel and unethical.”

“You wouldn't have said that a few months ago. Hell, you probably would have lauded my accomplishment!” Mesothulas leaned forward slightly, ignoring the tightening of Jazz’s grip. “So what is it that's changed, my dear?”

“That's not–”

“It must be Carpessa,” Mesothulas interrupted. “You were so upset by it last night. I've never seen you so affected. But why? Worse things have happened than the destruction of a neutral city.” And then realization lit in his optics. Mesothulas laughed again. “Of course! Praxus!”

Prowl’s doorwings flared, and his digits tightening about the blaster he still held. Prowl opened his mouth to speak (though he had yet to find the words) but once again, Mesothulas beat him to it.

“I thought you were better than that, Prowl. Brought so low because of some old memory?” His optics glowed with condescension. “I am a valuable resource, and you know it. You'd be a fool to throw away my skills just because of some brief guilt trip.”

Lifting the blaster, Prowl stepped forward until the muzzle pressed against Mesothulas’s chest. “You are a larger threat than ally. The cons outweigh the pros here. I won't allow you to continue your work.”

“So you're going to kill me.” Mesothulas canted his helm to the side, and though his mouth was not visible Prowl knew he was smirking. “Then why do you delay, my dear? Sentiment? You've been letting me talk, dragging this out. I'd almost think you're regretting trying to kill me.”

Prowl smirked for a short moment. “That's where you're wrong.” He lowered the blaster, stepped forward until his chest brushed against purple plating. “I'm not going to kill you.” He put the blaster in subspace.

Mesothulas frowned, confusion flickering in his optics. “If you won’t kill me, then what?”

Bending his helm, Prowl pressed a short kiss to Mesothulas’s mask. “Thank you for your service, Mesothulas. Our contract has terminated.”

The next moments passed quickly. Prowl flicked his wing, gesturing Jazz aside. Jazz released the confused scientist, sidestepping the smaller mech as Prowl set a servo on Mesothulas’s chest and pushed.

Mesothulas fell back into the portal. His optics, filled with accusation and betrayal, locked on Prowl’s for only a moment before he disappeared from sight. His shocked cry rang in Prowl’s audials for several long seconds.

Prowl stared at the portal. His optics ached with the effort of trying to understand the myriad of shapes and colors swirling in the greenish glow. Closing his optics, Prowl reached out and deactivated the portal, casting the room into darkness.

Silence pressed down on his audials for over a minute. Prowl onlined his optics to find that Jazz had stepped closer, his red visor a bright light in the dark. Prowl stared at it.

“Get rid of everything in this building. Destroy whatever you can.” Prowl turned to make his way back out of the building. “I have work to do at base.”

Jazz said nothing as Prowl walked away.

The drive was familiar in length, and some part of Prowl’s processor made note that this would be the last time he would ever drive this route.

By the time he made it back, Prowl had systematically removed himself from the memory of Mesothulas, until all he allowed himself to remember were bright yellow optics, sharp with accusation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why have I written Prowl to be so disfunctional? I don't know.  
> School is starting on Monday, and the next update will be in two weeks. I actually spent much of this week _not_ writing, but in fact playing a game that I will have considerably less time to play when school starts. I stayed up until 3 AM twice. I can't do that again :(  
>  Comments are a huge motivator for me, and will probably carry me through the tide of schoolwork, so... please...


	17. Chapter 17

Optimus Prime was tired. So very tired.

The fall of Praxus had marked a distinct line between the war before and the war as it was now. Optimus couldn't quite put it into words, but what he knew for sure was that Cybertron society was changing, and not for the better.

Sighing, Optimus lifted a datapad from the stack on his desk. Onlining it, he found it to be a report on the recruits coming from Carpessa.

Near three-thousand total from the small neutral city, of which five-hundred had come to Iacon.

Carpessa was a tragedy comparable to the worst that the war had caused. Optimus closed his optics to it briefly before opening them and scanning through the datapad.

There were training schedules, ration lists, housing charts. Optimus didn't have to read them, but he did anyway. It was good to know how one’s mechs were doing.

The Prime’s comm. buzzed when he was in the middle of reading where unit Δ-12 was being housed.

::Optimus Prime,:: Optimus said by way of greeting as he opened the link.

Ironhide’s gruff voice filtered down the link. ::Hey, Prime. We need you down in Cell-2. There's… well, just come over, it’d be easier if you saw for yourself.::

Optimus frowned. ::Of course.:: Setting the datapad aside, the Prime left his office.

 

Prowl jolted out of recharge as his alarm blared. Groaning, Prowl set it to a ten minute snooze and rolled over onto his front. Optics dark, Prowl drifted away.

Ten minutes later his alarm blared again. Prowl lay there for a few moments, hating everything. Then he turned off the alarm and pushed himself up and out of bed.

Bending down, Prowl retrieved his knife from beneath his pillow and threw the weapon into subspace. Lifting his servos over his helm, Prowl arched his back until in cracked. With a groaning sigh, Prowl straightened up. He took a deep breath and let it out.

With a touch to the panel, the door slid open. Prowl stepped out, waiting for the door to shut before he carried on down the corridor.

First stop, the main rec. room. Prowl made his way to the dispenser. The back of his neck tingled, and Prowl glanced about in anticipation. Jazz was nowhere to be seen.

Quashing his disappointment (two days of no contact, what was a third?) Prowl took his cube and left the room at a brisk pace.

More than ninety-five years had passed since Prowl was stationed at Uraya, and his aspirations towards the rank of TacHead had not faded. Prowl’s current rank as Tactical Lieutenant was a step below that projected goal, and a rank that he was content with for the time being.

Draining his energon cube and letting out a sigh, Prowl threw the cube into subspace and stepped into the tactical department.

Trackrun, standing over in the door of his office, caught Prowl’s optic for long enough to nod in greeting before he turned and stepped into his office.

Prowl glanced over the room, optics landing at last on Burnside. The prospective tactician wore a studious expression, but the finials on his helm twitched in obvious distress or confusion.

Prowl made his way over to the younger mech, settling into the chair of the next console.

“How is your work coming along?” Prowl asked his unofficial apprentice,

Burnside glanced up, and the twitching of his finials increased. “It's coming along.”

Lips twitching into a brief smirk, Prowl said, “What are you having trouble with?”

Teaching and mentoring was not something Prowl had ever thought he could do. A low-empathy mech and prone to sharp judgments upon first-meetings, Prowl did not consider himself suitable to the relationship involved with teaching (and not only because he was more likely to become frustrated with incompetence than he was to be able to explain what it was the other was doing wrong).

Still, this was not unpleasant, Prowl thought as he bent his helm towards Burnside, their words adding to the soft buzz of ambient conversation.

When Burnside finally returned to his project with renewed vigor, Prowl plugged into his own console.

The work was mundane as far as tactical work goes. Analysis, organization, projection. Prowl sank into the thousand-million streams of probabilities, thoughts flicking momentarily to the datapad he'd left for Jazz before Prowl left for Praxus.

Had Jazz read it? He'd taken it, of course. What did he think? Why had he not brought it up?

Such questions lingered at the back of Prowl’s mind, garnering light attention from his processors. A flicker of percentages, a few broken lines of probable answers. Nothing useful, each discarded as peripheral junk.

Two-thirds through his shift, Prowl received a comm. from Trackrun. He opened the link. ::Sir?::

::There's a transmission for you down in Comms. Seems urgent.::

::Yes, sir.::

Prowl made his way to Communications at a brisk pace, mind buzzing with questions as to the nature of the apparently urgent transmission.

One of the Comms mecha caught Prowl’s optic as he came in, waving Prowl over. The doorwinger stepped over to the console he was directed to, and was surprised to find Smokescreen on the vidscreen.

“Hello, Prowl,” the Iacon TacHead said, smiling.

“Hello, Smokescreen.” Prowl pursed his lips, confusion drawing a frown. “May I ask what this is about?”

Smokescreen grimaced, hissing through his teeth. “There's a… problem, let's say. It's too sensitive to express over comms. You're on the first shuttle back to Iacon.”

“May I ask why I am needed specifically?”

The blue doorwinger rubbed the back of his neck. “I- let's just say it's your presence and not your expertise that's been requested.”

Well that didn't clear anything up one bit, but it was the best Prowl could get. “Very well, sir, I'll be there as soon as I can.”

“Good, good.” Smokescreen paused. “It's good to see you again, Prowl.” He flashed a smile.

Prowl smiled back faintly. “And you, sir.”

 

Almost fifteen hours after Prowl had received his orders, he stepped out onto the docking bay of the Iacon base, subspace packed with his meager belongings. The single storage cube he owned was in the shuttle cargo, and would more than likely be sent to his room. (Not his old one. No. He would get a new one with no memories.)

Smokescreen stood not far away, and Optimus Prime as well. A few other officers –Ironhide, Ratchet, Red Alert– stood by, each wearing near identical expressions of well-hidden stress.

Prowl stepped forward, servos rising to accept Smokescreen’s comradely greeting. The other mech clasped Prowl’s forearms, thankfully too professional to go for a hug.

“Welcome back, Prowl,” Smokescreen said. His smile was small; something else was on his mind.

“Thank you, sir.” Prowl glanced at the other officers, at Optimus Prime. “May I know what the nature of this problem is now?”

Optimus Prime nodded, and turned to lead the party into the base. Prowl and Smokescreen fell into step just behind him as the other three officers followed behind.

“About twenty-one hours ago, we received an intruder alert,” Smokescreen began. “There was a mech in one of the armouries with no faction marker. We investigated it and found the mech waiting for us, nothing out of place. We’re guessing he tripped the alarms deliberately.”

Prowl frowned. The swooping sensation of panic rushed through his chest upon hearing the mystery bot had no faction marker. (Purple plating and yellow optics, betrayal and accusation.)

“He didn't fight upon detainment, nor upon putting him in a cell,” Smokescreen continued. “He ignored the first several requests for his identity, and would only say that he requested your presence.”

“My presence specifically?” Prowl asked, the swooping sensation growing stronger.

“Yes.”

Prowl frowned. “And did you eventually get a name out of him?”

It was Optimus Prime who answered. “He said his name was Jazz.”

The panic from before was nothing compared to the strange mix of horror, anticipation, and relief that flooded Prowl’s spark. Struck dumb, Prowl turned to Smokescreen, optics wide.

The TacHead nodded grimly. “As you can imagine, that's when we realized this was a bigger problem than we thought.”

“My question,” said Ironhide from somewhere behind them, “Is why a known Decepticon, and one of Megatron’s best Ops agents, would request the presence of an Autobot tactician.”

Prowl felt the piercing stare of every officer present, though Smokescreen’s was thankfully less accusing and more curious. Optimus glanced over his shoulder to give Prowl an indecipherable look.

But then they had reached the interrogation rooms, and Prowl was saved from the fire so that he might jump into the next one.

“He’s said he’ll only speak to you,” Smokescreen said. “He hasn't spoken a word since giving us his name.”

Prowl nodded silently.

“We’ll be in the observation room,” Ironhide said, jabbing a thumb at the other door. He, Ratchet, and Red Alert filed into the room, leaving Prowl in the hall with Smokescreen and Optimus Prime.

Optimus looked down at Prowl from his greater height. “I hope you can give us answers, Prowl,” he said enigmatically before he and Smokescreen stepped into the observation room.

Prowl stared at the door to the interrogation room. After several moments’ hesitation, Prowl took a step forward and opened the door.

The room was as any interrogation room would be. Prowl stepped inside and let the door close, optics skipping over the table and empty chair to the mech restrained in the opposite seat.

Jazz’s visor was dark, his helm tilted back. His arms were cuffed behind his back, the chain looped through the spine of his chair. Prowl knew that if he looked, Jazz’s pedes would be cuffed to the chair as well.

All good precautionary measures. Prowl wondered how much they would actually impede Jazz if the Decepticon put his mind to escaping.

Walking over to the empty chair, Prowl pulled it out and sat down.

Jazz’s visor flashed online, flooding his features with red. He straightened his helm, looked at Prowl for a long moment. A smirk spread across his face.

“Hey, Prowler.” Despite his captive state, Jazz gave off a casual air, as though they were merely speaking across a rec. room table.

Prowl looked at Jazz, expression stony. The silver mech huffed.

“No ‘hello’? Come on.”

“I'm told you requested my presence.”

Jazz sighed. “That works I guess. Yeah, I did.”

Prowl braced his forearms on the table, tilting his helm. “Why?”

“Straight to the point. Primus, Prowler, can't you hold a conversation?” Jazz groaned, helm lolling back before he lifted it again, a grin on his lips. “Try and guess.”

“No.”

Jazz pouted. “How come?”

“I don't like guessing games.” Prowl leaned forward. “Give me a straight answer, Jazz.”

“Only if I get to ask a question to you first.” The Decepticon’s visor flickered in a wink.

Prowl frowned, chin lifting in a silent question. Jazz huffed.

“Don't tell me you've forgotten, Prowl. ‘Give an’ take’, remember? ‘S what we agreed on.”

“Every single word that comes out of your mouth does me absolutely no favors.” Prowl’s wings twitched as he felt for the sparks in the room behind the one-way mirror. The more time he spent talking to Jazz was more time spent digging his own grave.

Jazz shrugged. “Well you ain't the one with a favor to cash.”

Prowl’s gaze sharpened. So this was Jazz asking something of him. Something big. Prowl sat back slightly. “Alright, your question?”

Sitting forward as well as he could in his bonds, Jazz said seriously, “Do you still think I would lie to you?”

Prowl’s spark skipped a beat. He stared at Jazz, blind to all but the red glow of the Decepticon’s visor. That old hatred flickered in his chest, the pain of his loss and the anger he'd transformed it into. For a moment, Prowl heard the rush of energon in his audials, felt the surge of panicked fury.

Then the memories faded, and Prowl was left with a question he didn't know the answer to.

The moment stretched on for too long. Prowl took and breath and let it out. “I can't be sure of anything you say, Jazz.”

Jazz nodded slowly. “I'll have to work out a way to change that.”

Prowl pursed his lips. “I gave you an answer, where's mine?”

“Ah, well.” Jazz solemn expression disappeared behind a wry smile. “This I think you’ll like, Prowler.” He leaned forward. “I'm defectin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seventeen chapters, 40k-ish words in, and finally Jazz has decided to defect! At this point in the game, my friends, we're _maybe_ halfway through. I've written several chapters more than this, of course, and I don't know how many more are to go, but I have a vague projection of somewhere from 35 to 40 chapters in total? I don't know.  
>  Comments are gold, my friends, and I hoard them with tears and joy. Please comment. I'm begging you.


	18. Chapter 18

_Defecting._

Prowl stared at Jazz in shock. It took the doorwinger a few moments to gather himself, but when he did, Prowl pushed back his chair, stood, and left the room.

Leaning against the wall of the hallway, Prowl sighed. He wasn't sure what exactly these emotions were that filled him, but they felt enough like anger that Prowl decided to feel angry instead.

Scrubbing a servo over his face, Prowl pushed away from the wall and into the observation room.

The expressions of the mechs within were highly varied. Red Alert looked almost furious, while Ironhide seemed to have a more suspicious kind of anger. Smokescreen and Ratchet looked bemused, and Optimus Prime was… enigmatic.

Prowl stood pinned beneath their combined gazes, and the urge to turn and leave almost choked him.

Clearing his throat, Prowl said in a slightly strangled voice, “You got his motives, I don't believe I'm required anymore.”

The silence pressed on for a few moments more before Optimus Prime said, “On the contrary, I do believe we still need you on this.”

Red Alert sputtered, marching Prowl’s own surprise and shock. “What!” The Security Director exclaimed. “He’s been fraternizing with a Decepticon for _who know how long_ and you're going to let him stay on that Decepticon’s proposed defection case?!”

The Prime lifted a servo, halting Red Alert’s tirade. “Calm, Red Alert. Explanations will be given in due time, but for now, we have a potential recruit expecting us.”

Ironhide chose that moment to speak. “You can't be serious, Prime.” He gestured at the next room, and the mech within. “That mech is incredibly dangerous, and we can't trust him– or his associates.” Ironhide cast a dark glare at Prowl.

“As I said, explanations will be given in due time.” Optimus glanced at Prowl. “We have to assure the validity of his claims.”

It took Prowl a moment to realize. “A hardline interface,” he said softly. The doorwinger glanced at Jazz, sitting quietly at the table in the interrogation room. “He's very skilled, it's unlikely you'll be able to do it successfully without his consent.”

The Prime tilted his helm. “Do you believe he will consent?”

Prowl paused. “I don't know.”

“Hm.” The look Optimus gave to Prowl was oppressive in its unreadability. “Ask him if he will accept a hardline interface. If he does, you will assist Ratchet in the initiation.”

“No.” Prowl shook his helm hard, cutting off what were probably Red Alert and Ironhide’s own protests. “I refuse. Call in someone from Ops to help. I won't do it.” (If Jazz was lying, Prowl didn't want to see it.)

Silence pressed down as Optimus observed the doorwinger. “Very well. If he consents, we will bring someone from Special Operations to assist Ratchet.”

Prowl glanced at the other officers. They stared back at him, and Prowl couldn't read their faces but they seemed to be negative.

“Yes sir,” Prowl said, bowing his helm so that he didn't have to look at everyone (he wished they'd stop _staring_.)

All but fumbling his way out of the observation room, Prowl closed the door. In the privacy of the empty corridor, he let out a shaky exhale. He turned to the interrogation room.

Opening the door, Prowl stepped inside and shut the door behind himself.

Jazz had slouched back in his chair, but upon Prowl’s entrance he sat back up.

“So?” he said. “How'd the consult with the Prime go?”

Prowl considered sitting down in the interrogator’s chair, but decided not to. He stepped up behind the chair, one idle servo resting upon the back. “We want to assess the validity of your proposed defection through a hardline interface.”

Jazz frowned, tilting his helm slightly. “‘We’? So you don't believe me.”

“Of course I don't.” Prowl couldn't hide the sneer that curled his lips for barely a moment. It was an angry sneer. Prowl didn't know if he felt angry, though.

The silver mech’s frown deepened. “Why not?” His tone sounded more like an accusation than a question.

“Do you consent to a hardline interface?” Prowl said.

“Don't dodge the question.” Jazz leaned forward. “Why don't ya trust me?”

“Do you–”

Jazz interrupted swiftly. “Answer my question.”

Prowl hissed angrily, doorwings flaring. “Why would I trust you?”

“I don't know, because I'm your friend?”

“Friends don't lie to each other.”

Jazz laughed, harsh and loud. “Okay, for one, that's absolute slag. For another, when have I ever lied to you?”

Prowl noticed that his digits had tightened on the back of the chair, putting faint dents in the metal. “You didn't tell me about- about Barricade.” It took effort to say the name, like remembering something you'd forgotten.

“That wasn't a lie.”

“It was a lie of omission, and I won't argue the semantics. Answer my question.” Prowl felt more metal give under his fingers.

“We agreed that we would answer every direct question with a direct answer. I gave you vague answers because you asked vague questions.”

Prowl scoffed. “So it's _my_ fault? My fault that Barricade is a ‘con and Ironside and his unit are dead.”

Jazz bared his teeth like an animal as he said, “You didn't ask those questions because you didn't want the answers. I'm not your caretaker Prowl, I won't coddle you. You had to find out for yourself.”

The laugh that wrenched from Prowl’s throat sounded hysterical. “You clearly have no idea how friendship works.”

“Hell, mech, I don't think you do either.” Jazz sneered. “I've seen how you treat your friends, remember? Or was he your lover? I couldn't quite gauge it from the level of betrayal in his optics.” He leaned forward. “Is that how all your relationships end? Maybe I should follow Barricade’s lead and back out before I get hurt too, huh?”

Prowl thought of a yellow visor and broad shoulders, of how disappointed his ~~lover~~ ~~friend~~ partner had looked when Prowl made his choices (for the greater good, for _Cybertron_ ). Thought of yellow optics and purple-yellow plating and pushing him into a place he couldn't escape from (for the Autobots, for the war).

Rage turned to pain, and Prowl couldn't tell if it was from the memories or Jazz’s words.

(Why would it be Jazz’s words?)

Prowl almost gasped as the pain surged in his spark, seizing it like a vice. Between one moment and the next, Prowl collapsed into himself. His face went still, his grip on the chair-back loosened and his servo fell to his side. The tension in his shoulders and wings vanished as the height of both sank to appropriate levels.

“Do you consent to a hardline interface assessing the validity of your defection?” Prowl asked, voice flat.

Jazz reared back, visor brightening. His sneer vanished, but he didn't speak for several moments.

Prowl stared at the red of Jazz’s visor, but he didn't really see it. He just needed a reply (needed to leave).

“Yeah,” Jazz said, voice soft. “I consent.”

Prowl turned on his heel, didn't look at Jazz, didn't look at the mirror separating them from the observation room. Pulling open the door (too quickly, too quickly, you have to hide it) Prowl stepped outside and closed it.

Prowl fled from the hall before anyone could come out and talk to him.

 

Optimus watched Prowl exit the interrogation room, clearly shaken and struggling to hide it. The Prime wasn't surprised when Prowl didn't appear in the observation room door. The sound of hurried footsteps carried through the door, fading down the hallway.

Optimus turned to Smokescreen. “Tell Stormset to send one of his mechs down here.” He glanced at the other officers, gaze settling on Ratchet’s. “Smokescreen, Ironhide, Red Alert, you're dismissed.”

Smokescreen bowed his helm and left, followed by Red Alert. Ironhide jabbed a digit at Optimus’s chest as he passed.

“I want that explanation from him, Prime.” The Weapons Specialist strode from the room before Optimus could reply.

Optimus Prime looked to Ratchet. The old medic stood with his arms cross, frowning at the silver mech inside the interrogation room.

“So what do you think?” Optimus said, turning his own gaze on the Decepticon.

The mech –Jazz– had sat back in his chair. He wore a dark expression, but it didn't seem malicious. His crimson gaze all but bored a hole in the table.

Ratchet huffed. “I think it's sure something.” He looked to Optimus. “You gonna keep Prowl on his case if he does defect?”

“I'm considering it.”

Ratchet scoffed again and said nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter is going to be a _very_ special chapter!! But I won't give spoilers :)))  
>  On another note, I've run into something of a wall whilst writing, and it may be to any number of factors, but regardless I would appreciate some comments on this chapter, just to push me along.  
> Two weeks until the next update!


	19. Chapter 19

Hardline interfaces were unpleasant when one-sided, at least on the receiving end. Jazz wasn't often on the receiving end, but he'd been there before and that hadn't been nice.

Ratchet was a professional, though, and so was the mech they'd gotten from Autobot Ops.

Jazz didn't ask where Prowl was, why Prowl wasn't here aiding with his assessment. He wouldn't have gotten an answer, and he knew what the answer was anyway.

(The look on Prowl’s face as he shut down. Empty and blank. Jazz hated that look, the way it make his spark squeeze in its casing. Hated that he had caused it.)

The pressure of having two mechs in his helm was comparable to squeezing a balloon filled with water. Except Jazz wasn't a balloon, and if worst came to worst he'd make sure he wasn't the only one going out with a messy pop.

Jazz complied, though. Played nice, opened his firewalls, made sure all his traps and safeguards didn't tear the medic’s mind to shreds.

:So, here's how this is gonna go.: Ratchet said. He stood to Jazz’s right, a servo braced on his shoulder, probably ready to pull himself and his hardline from Jazz if need be. The Ops guy stood on Jazz’s left side in a similar position. :First I'm gonna see the moment you stated your defection. From there, we’ll move on to what motivated you to defect.:

:Sounds like fun.: Jazz settled into as comfortable position as he could find, though nothing would curb the uncomfortable pressure in his helm.

:Well, point me to the clip, ‘cause I'm not going rifling through your files on my own.:

Jazz did so without comment, highlighting a safe path to the brief memory clip. Ratchet followed it, while the Ops mech stayed back, hovering towards the foreground of Jazz’s processor. From what little Jazz could gauge of the mech through the one-way link, the bot had some good slag rolling around in his helm. He'd probably be a fun challenge to hack.

Luckily, neither Ratchet nor the Ops mech were deep enough in Jazz’s helm to catch that thought.

Ratchet pulled up the clip, played it.

_“This I think you’ll like, Prowler.”_ It was always weird to hear one’s own voice through a memory clip. _“I'm defectin’.”_

Ratchet pored over the clip for several seconds, examining the emotional footstamp. Jazz didn't know what exactly he was doing –slag like this wasn't necessary to intel retrieval– but he watched anyway, careful of any wrong moves the medic might make.

At last Ratchet pulled away from the moment, tucking it back into place with surprising care.

:Alright,: the medic said, :let’s work backwards. At this point it's better for me to take over on the searching, but I won't if you don't want me to.:

Jazz considered it carefully. Very carefully. (If his assessor were Prowl he wouldn't hesitate.)

:Sure, fine.: Jazz let his lightest defense protocol light up– a short prick of a thousand little knives, lasting barely a moment. Ratchet grimaced nonetheless. The Ops guy did nothing. :No funny stuff.:

:I'm never funny.: Ratchet paused. :And don't worry about Mirage. He’s here for security, but I'm the only one who’ll be seeing this stuff besides you.:

The old mech was quick. It was actually fascinating to watch. He zipped down the range of Jazz’s memories, always lingering on the ones with large emotional footstamps: the moment Jazz saw Prowl in person again, after ninety-four years of waiting; that time Shockwave dragged Jazz into one of his experiments; that split second where Jazz saw a doorwinger get torn apart by a couple furious ‘Cons and felt his spark stop; that time when Jazz saw a young mech getting roughed up and stepped in, gave the kid a ration and a knife and showed him how to get outta that kinda thing next time ‘round.

There wasn't any judgement from the medic. There wasn't much of anything besides clinical curiosity.

(Jazz wouldn't admit to being relieved when Ratchet skimmed lightly over those minutes in the neutral scientist’s lab. ~~What would it do to Prowl if Autobot Command found out?~~ )

Ratchet halted on those few minutes Jazz spent scrawling a message to Prowl, writing and erasing and trashing every single draft. (He'd always hoped Prowl hadn't thought to go through the coding of the datapad and check for deleted notes.)

For the first time in this whole ordeal, Jazz felt the urge to stop the medic. That wasn't for him, wasn't for the Autobots.

Ratchet moved on, but it wasn't very far.

_“Jazz is required at Kaon.” Soundwave intoned, his voice more grainy than usual through the heavily encrypted feed._

_Jazz frowned. “What?”_

_“Lord Megatron requires Jazz to return. Jazz is not longer permitted to exercise movement without Lord Megatron’s knowledge.”_

_Anger surged in Jazz’s chest. “Hey, come on, that's slag! He's never stopped me before!”_

_“Return. Lord Megatron will not be kept waiting.” The feed fizzled out. Jazz crushed the comm. cube in his servos and threw the pieces into his subspace for later disposal._

_Return. Like he was a turbofox to be kept on a leash, to come when called and roll on his back. Soundwave might find that kind of thing kinky, but Jazz sure as hell didn't._

_Jazz fumed for several minutes, but there wasn't really much to be done. Orders were orders, and Jazz may hate following them but when it came to something direct like this he probably shouldn't skimp them, especially when Soundwave was directly involved._

_But he'd be leaving-_

_More out of habit than will, Jazz reached for his tracker protocols, pulled up the one he'd labeled A.P. The coordinates of the tracker blinked comfortingly, reassuring him that Prowl was still in Praxus, still where Jazz left him._

_(Left him alone and mourning.)_

_This hadn't been the plan. He hadn't meant to leave Prowl alone for so long. Four days already, was he okay? Was he coping?_

_Jazz had been planning to give him a few weeks to cool down._

_Looks like there would be a whole lot more weeks until their next meeting than Jazz had expected._

Ratchet withdrew from the memory. He said nothing, but Jazz thought he caught a flicker of sympathy from the old medic.

Then Ratchet flicked to the next memory, and that's where Jazz got tense. Because this one had Prowl– had a lot of Prowl, had all of him, vulnerable and broken and scared and Jazz knew Prowl wouldn't want anyone to see him that way.

Those little knives bristled, and Ratchet grunted. On the outskirts, the Ops mech –Mirage, right? Heh, cute– bristled in turn, sending warning jolts down the hardline. Jazz didn't flinch.

:I need to see the files I deem relevant, Jazz,: Ratchet said. His voice was stern, but it had a strangely soothing undertone. :Should your defection be deemed acceptable, everything I've seen will be placed under doctor-patient confidentiality.:

Jazz had never really known Ratchet. He'd always made a point of not hanging around the bigwig officers. The old codger had a reputation, though. Talks slag, walks slag, has servos that work miracles and a spark that's completely trustworthy.

:Fine.:

_“Sorry to hear about, y’know, all this.” Jazz stepped into the small room. Prowl look up at him, and his gaze was the coldest Jazz had ever seen._

_“Are you really?” Icicles all but dripped from Prowl’s tongue. Jazz didn't let it get to him._

_“Am I really sorry?” Jazz stopped at the couch opposite Prowl’s, leaned against the plush cushions. “Of course, love. Y’just lost your fraggin’ city, not even I am so cruel as to dig at that wound.”_

_Prowl sneered. It looked ugly. It looked painful. “Liar,” he hissed._

_Something in Jazz’s spark dropped. He pulled up a mask, rallied himself. Let his visor fade from blue to red. “Oh?” Jazz let the silence rest, waited for Prowl to speak._

_When Prowl did, it was soft. “You knew, didn't you. You knew this was coming.”_

_Jazz replied honestly, but he already knew how Prowl would respond. “I didn't know.”_

_“Liar!” Prowl leapt to his pedes, doorwings flaring. “You’ve been lying to me since the start of this! Of_ course _you knew!”_

_“I have never told you an outright lie, Prowl, and you know it.” Jazz kept his voice soft. He wouldn't yell at Prowl, not while he was like this._

_“Do I?” Prowl’s wings shuddered, and his servos had clenched into fists. Pain shone in his optics. “I know_ nothing _about you! You are Jazz, Megatron’s best saboteur, his best infiltrator, his best_ spy _second only to Soundwave. That is all I know. You are a_ Decepticon _!”_

_‘I don't have to be’ was a thought that Jazz banished as soon as it appeared._

_“You really think I would keep something like this from you?” Jazz sighed, shaking his helm slowly. “I would never let something like this happen to you, Prowl.” Not to Prowl, never to his Prowl. Jazz took care of his things._

_(But maybe Prowl had stopped being a thing somewhere along the way and Jazz hadn't caught it.)_

_“Something like losing my entire city? Of_ course _you would! You've been manipulating me ever since we met, trying to_ break _me!” Tears had pooled in Prowl’s optics. Jazz wanted to wipe them away._

_Jazz took a step forward before he knew it, then another. He spread his servos, said in a soft voice, “You know I would never hurt you like this.” Because he wouldn't. Would never hurt Prowl again. Not like Barricade had._

_Prowl’s voice cracked as he shrieked, “Stop_ lying _to me!”_

_Jazz sighed, shook his helm, took another step forward and another. “I ain't lyin’, Prowler. You ain't thinkin’ straight. We both know I wouldn't do this. You remember, right?” Remember the way Prowl had looked in his victory, vibrant and glorious and bold. Inevitable._

_“You're too_ obsessed _to kill me! You would do anything to break me to get what you want!”_

_Jazz’s spark ached. He didn't like the feeling, shook his helm to dispel both it and Prowl’s words. “I’d never hurt you like this. You've done somethin’ to me, love.” Something terrible. Jazz laughed ruefully. “I’d do anything to keep you safe.” Anything, anything you wanted, anything you asked for._

_“_ Stop lying _!”_

_Jazz saw the punch coming from a mile away, telegraphed clearly through Prowl’s actions. He dodged it, ducked under Prowl’s nonexistent guard, and brought the doorwinger down to the floor. Far quicker than Prowl could react to, Jazz pinned Prowl’s servos above his helm._

_(He couldn't let Prowl hurt himself.)_

_“I'm not, Prowler,” Jazz whispered. His spark ached, like a burning brand sitting in his chest. Like Prowl’s pain had seeped into Jazz somehow._

_Prowl fought against Jazz’s hold, but Jazz held firm. Straddled the balance between keeping Prowl down and making sure he wouldn't hurt Prowl. For a moment Prowl caught Jazz’s optics behind the visor, and the blazing hate in Prowl’s gaze turned the ache in Jazz’s spark into a void._

_Jazz felt Prowl’s frame begin to fatigue, knew that his fighting was coming to an end. He didn't expect Prowl to arch his back, to throw back his helm and open his mouth as if to scream._

_No sound came from Prowl’s lips, however. He was silent, the only sound being faintest hiss of air as it was forced from his vents._

_Jazz’s audials registered no sound, but the strength of Prowl’s screams shuddered through Jazz’s frame nonetheless, a phantom of a feeling._

_Prowl’s scream, long and drawn out, came to an end when he began to sob. His chest heaved, catching and rising in time with Prowl’s hitching breaths. And still, no sound. Only air, and the quiet catching of Prowl’s throat on his sobs._

_Jazz stared down at Prowl, at his tight-shut optics and gasping mouth. Jazz released his hold on Prowl. Reached up and barely (just barely) brushed a finger over his cheek. There were no tears. Perhaps Prowl’s pain was too much even for that._

_Then Prowl went limp, helm lolling to the side. His breathing hitched, but he no longer cried. His optics went blank and unseeing as Prowl collapsed inward. Jazz ached for him. (He shouldn’t.)_

_Jazz rose, got to his pedes. Then he bent down, put an arm under Prowl’s shoulders and another under his knees. The doorwinger was heavier than he looked, but Jazz had no difficulties with bringing him to the couch, laying him gently on the threadbare cushions._

_Jazz pulled his arms away, and immediately missed the sensation of holding Prowl close._

_“Go to sleep, love,” Jazz murmured. Prowl looked up at him, optics dim and weary._

_He couldn't help it. Jazz reached out, rested a servo against Prowl’s smooth helm, brushed a thumb over his soft cheek. He sighed, and his spark pulsed with that damn ache that Jazz didn't understand._

_“Goodbye, Prowler.” Jazz bent his helm, pressed a kiss to the center of that pretty red chevron. Wished he could have bent his helm and kissed Prowl’s lips as well._

_Jazz left before he could make any more bad choices._

Ratchet pulled from the memory, and Jazz felt instant relief. Going through that had him feeling wrung out. Jazz pushed that memory away, put it under lock and key. No one else would ever see that again.

The rest of the ‘assessment’ seemed to go by quickly, or maybe Jazz was just distracted. Ratchet looked at a lot of other things– went back and back and back, but only until the time when Jazz decided to join the Decepticons. Jazz was glad the old mech didn't go any further.

At last, Ratchet began to retreat. Jazz was fully aware of Ratchet pulling out of his processor, of Mirage following. The pressure in Jazz’s helm decreased dramatically, leaving only a hollow ache.

Ratchet retracted his hardline, closed Jazz’s covers.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Ratchet said.

Jazz scoffed. “Thanks for the headache.”

The old medic snorted. “Mirage will get you a ration. I hope you don't have dignity because we won't uncuff you.”

“Ah, well, if there's anyone who's gonna be weird about it, it won't be me.” Jazz gave a grin, one full of sharp teeth.

“Heh.” Ratchet walked to the door, Mirage following closely behind. They left, closing the door behind them. Silence descended, but Jazz was familiar with it.

Tilting his helm back and settling in, Jazz considered whether he ought to wait until after he got his ration to break out and go see Prowl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right I rewrote that post-Praxus scene in its entirety from Jazz's POV. Is it lazy? Yes. Is it really awesome? Also yes.  
> The root of my writers block is, I've found, that I now have two new after-school hobbies; reading Danganronpa fanfic, and painting tabletop strategy game (Warhammer) models. It's fun. But I also need to write more.  
> When I wrote this chapter, I didn't expect Jazz to be as lowkey in love with Prowl as he turned out to be, but we're here now. I hope everyone liked it, please give a comment! I have some art for chapter 21, so there'll be a pic included with that chapter when it comes :)


	20. Chapter 20

“Prowl, what do I hire you for?” Heavy steps drew near, and Prowl’s joints locked. Then the steps passed him by, allowing Prowl a moment to sigh in relief.

The words ‘you don't hire me’ lay on Prowl’s tongue, but to speak them was to invite his superior’s ire. “To do my job and follow your orders, sir.”

Silhouetted before the floor-to-ceiling window, the larger mech braced his arms behind his back. “I can't seem to recall you doing those things the other day.” The sunlight bounced off his golden-orange plating, creating a brilliant (and deceptive) halo.

Prowl, standing in a stiff parade rest, took a brief, bolstering breath. “The circumstances were less than favourable, sir.”

“It doesn't matter what the circumstances were, Prowl. Your _job_ is to do as _I say_.”

Pale lips twisted, and Prowl ducked his helm to hide the grimace. Rebellious words bubbled in his throat –’perhaps if you had given me orders I would have been able to follow them’– but Prowl held them back. “Of course, sir,” was all Prowl said.

That ornate helm turned, and a cold, blue gaze landed on Prowl. “Come here, Prowl.” His voice, deep and baritone, resonated through Prowl’s frame. Prowl hated it.

Prowl hesitated, staring into the greater mech’s dark optics. Apprehension shivered in Prowl’s spark, knowledge of what was to come when he obeyed the other's order.

Then he turned, his broad frame strikingly beautiful in the light through the window. His face was stony, his voice commanding as he said, “Come here.”

Prowl was about to obey, but then he didn't. Because he didn't have to. (Because he didn't want to.)

This is my dream, he thought, so I don't have to do this.

And since it was his dream, Prowl decided he wasn't going to dream of this. Of him. He closed his optics and willed himself away, and then he was driving down a wide highway.

Praxus’s towers rose up around him, blurry pedestrians whipping by as Prowl drove and drove.

He wasn't alone, of course. Prowl’s partner was there beside him, his altmode keeping up with relative ease. Prowl didn't have to look to know who it was.

They wove through the streets, completely in tune with each other. Prowl showed his partner all the best parts of Praxus, all the little corners and niches and secret places. Showed him all the hidden places in Prowl’s spark (all but one).

Prowl took his partner by the servo and led him deep into the Helix Gardens, showed him the forgotten clearing he'd found, with the broken fountain and crumbling benches. The most private place, where he went to be alone. And now he wanted to be alone with his partner.

Prowl sat on the bench, pulled his partner down to sit beside him.

“This is it.” Prowl smiled at his partner. His partner’s yellow visor shone at him, and Prowl knew he would be smiling if he had a mouth.

“I want to tell you something.” Prowl said earnestly, because this was his dream and he could fix his mistakes here.

His partner lifted a servo, touched Prowl’s face. “I love you, Prowl. I'll always be there for you.”

Prowl smiled, leaned into the touch. Opened his mouth to speak. “I'm leaving Iacon,” he said.

No, no, those were the wrong words. But Prowl couldn't take it back.

His partner frowned, looked over from the kitchenette where he was preparing energon. Prowl twisted his digits together on his lap, staring at the low table in front of the couch. The table he'd chosen for their suite, because it was plain but nice, and his partner had indulged Prowl’s simple tastes for once.

“You're what?”

“I can't stay here, not when I can do more good in the Autobot Security Services.” Prowl cast his partner an anxious, expectant look. His partner would support him, of course he would.

But he didn't. He got angry.

Prowl shrank from his partner’s anger, his accusations, the glow of betrayal in his visor.

“I'm doing this for you! For Cybertron!” Prowl cried.

But his partner shook his helm angrily, pointed a sharp finger. “No, you're doing this because you're selfish! Why the frag would you be on their side!”

Prowl’s spark burned with a hurt that seized his spark and clenched in his tank. “I'm not on their side! I'm trying to fix things!”

For the greater good, for justice, for Cybertron.

But his partner wouldn't see, wouldn't understand. He only looked disappointed and betrayed.

 

Rolling over, Prowl buried his face in his pillow. The memory of his dream flashed through his mind, the distinctness of the images already lessening.

Prowl sighed, pushing the memories back, behind the wall where he kept everything of its like.

With the dream fading, along with the memories of two very different golden-yellow mechs, Prowl realized that his waking had not been entirely natural. Something had disturbed his sleep.

With a flick of his wings, Prowl scanned the area. Then, upon detecting the anomaly, lifted himself on his elbows, helm turning to the right.

Jazz sat at the desk, slouched in the chair. His visor glowed a faint blue, reflecting off the planes of his face. The dim light of the desk lamp bounced off his silver plating.

“What's the time?” Prowl asked, lying down on his side. His right arm stretched out across the mattress, digits curled loosely. Prowl didn't think about how it looked, as if he were reaching out.

“About 0600, or thereabouts.” Jazz smiled slightly. “That's your first question, really?”

Prowl sighed heavily. Barely an hour of sleep. He shut his optics, allowing himself a short, two second doze. Opening his optics, Prowl said, “Shouldn't you be in a holding cell?”

Jazz’s low hum resonated across Prowl’s doorwings. “I should be in an interrogation cell, actually, ‘cause they never moved me.”

“Mmh.” Prowl sighed again, closed his optics. The past twenty hours had been exhausting, more emotionally than physically. He couldn't muster the energy to maintain the anger he'd felt before.

(He wasn't even sure why he'd been angry at all. Wasn't sure why he'd felt so betrayed.)

Plating shifted on plating as Jazz rose to his pedes, and Prowl knew that the saboteur was projecting his actions as he crossed the tiny room. A weight settled at the end of the berth.

“I'm sorry for what I said.”

Blue optics flashed online, and Prowl rolled onto his back, pushing himself up so he sat against the wall. Prowl pulled up a knee, held it to his chest.

“I don't think I remember you ever apologizing to me,” he said quietly.

Jazz hummed. “Yeah, neither can I.” He frowned, visor dimming. “I am sorry, though.”

It was so very strange, to see the silver mech apologetic. Prowl had never known him to be anything but confident, arrogant, sly, only ever serious when the situation called for it. There was something in Jazz’s expression that Prowl had never seen there before, and he couldn't put his finger on it.

And then Prowl realized. It was honesty. No masks, no machinations.

“I believe you.” And Prowl did. Somehow.

(It was dangerous, this trusting, believing. It laid him bare to betrayal. But Prowl couldn't make himself release it. He wanted it– wanted to trust again. Have someone stand beside him.)

Jazz offered a small smile. “I'm glad.” His smile waned. “‘M sorry about Barricade, too. Ain't nothin’ I can say to justify that.”

Some old ache (bitter and writhing) rose in Prowl’s chest before he tamped it down. “One day, maybe, I can forgive you for that. But not today.”

“You don't gotta.” Jazz shook his helm. “I'm just tellin’ you what I feel. I can't decide what you feel.”

Confusion brought a quizzical turn to Prowl’s lips. “What's all this for? Apologizing, I mean.” He tilted his helm, let himself smile just slightly. “Are you turning Autobot?”

“Well I'm tryin’, aren't I?” Jazz smiled back. “Maybe it's like a virus.” His smile faded, though it did not disappear. “Or maybe you've just done something to me.” His words hung in the air between them, carrying something else (something frightening).

Prowl averted his gaze. “Well, I hope you can express this Autobot-ness to Prime and his officers. Perhaps it will speed their consideration of your defection.”

Jazz chuckled. “Naw, love, this is just for you.” There was something soft in Jazz’s smile that Prowl couldn't name, but it scared Prowl enough that he discarded the effort immediately.

Silence fell between them, but it didn't feel too awkward. (They fit together like puzzle pieces. Prowl had thought he'd felt that once before. He'd been proven wrong.) Prowl tilted his helm back until it hit the wall, closing his optics as he released a drawn-out sigh.

At some point Jazz shifted, but Prowl didn't open his optics. The weight on the berth moved upwards and spread out. Jazz had laid down, on the outer edge of the berth as he had before.

And wasn't it strange that they'd done this two times already.

“Nice digs,” Jazz mumbled. It sounded as though he'd laid on his front and pillowed his head in his arms. “Kinda small.”

A small huff of laughter escaped Prowl’s lips. “At least I don't have a roommate,” he said, quoting his reply to Jazz’s words more than ninety-five years ago.

Jazz laughed, his plating just barely brushing Prowl’s as his chest and shoulders expanded.

“You know,” Jazz said after a minute of silence, “You ain't the only one who kept an old datapad on them for the past nine decades.”

The smile Prowl hadn't realized he was wearing dropped immediately. He lifted his helm, opened his optics. Jazz looked up at him, the angle awkward from his position.

“I dunno what I was expecting –about what you'd wanted to show me or your past– but I gotta say, it explains some things.”

“Like what?”

Jazz shrugged. “Your eating habits, your relationship with ‘Cade, other little things.” He turned his helm until his neck cracked, then relaxed. “Gotta wonder what the truth was, though.”

Prowl hunched his shoulders. “I'll never know.” He pursed his lips. “I'll never know how Barricade knew about it, either. I never told him. Or anyone.”

“Hm.” Jazz chewed on his lower lip. “It's funny, though, because you are Outlier level. Maybe you aren't cold constructed at all, maybe you're secretly forged.”

“I think that I and the Council would have known if I were forged.” Prowl picked at a tiny flake of paint on his thigh. “It's all in the past, and best left forgotten.”

(In the back of Prowl’s mind whispered a long forgotten voice. “Never forget, ΠΔ2932, to be thankful. You fit your function, despite your defect. You must be grateful for this, and grateful to the Council for releasing you.”

Prowl replied, “I am grateful to the Council. I will not forget it.”)

“O’ course.” Jazz smiled, small and reassuring and soothing away the memories that broached Prowl’s mind. “Don't worry, Prowler, your secrets are safe with me.” And there was that softness again, sending a spike of fear into Prowl’s spark.

And yet, Prowl relaxed, the tension flowing from his shoulders. “Of course.” was all he could think to say. (Why did he trust Jazz to keep his word? Jazz lied, he always lied, except he didn't.)

The silver mech nodded. “Come on, love, lie down. You need your sleep.”

Prowl obeyed without hesitation, sliding down the berth until his helm rested on the pillow. Jazz had settled slightly further down, but when Prowl was in place he rolled over and moved up the berth in turn.

“They’ll probably be looking for you in a few hours, if not less,” Prowl said, turning onto his front and pillowing his helm in his arms. His doorwings waved against nonexistent air currents.

“Then I'll leave in a few hours.” Jazz settled in, servos clasped over his abdomen.

Prowl hummed, let his optics close. “No knife?”

“I thought that'd make a bad impression if they ended up comin’ here.” Jazz turned his helm, offered a small smile.

“Mmh.” Prowl sighed. He felt sleep begin to creep up over his mind. “You look better in blue,” Prowl mumbled as he slipped away into recharge.

“I think so too.” Jazz shifted slightly before going still. “I want us to be friends, Prowler,” he said quietly, hushed in the dark of the room.

Prowl smiled, a sleepy turn of his lips, too weary to feel afraid. “I'd like that,” he whispered before succumbing to sleep.

 

Prowl woke to an incessant buzzing from his comm. Groaning, Prowl checked his chronometer: 1023.

Shifting onto his back, Prowl opened the link.

::Yes?:: Not the most polite of openings, but Prowl was tired. Five and a half hours of sleep had certainly not been enough.

::Prowl, I'm afraid that Jazz has gone missing from the interrogation room.:: It was Optimus Prime. ::As we are under the impression you know him well, we thought you might know where he is.::

Prowl glanced to the side, where Jazz lay silent, though probably not sleeping.

::I believe I can locate him.::

::Good. If you can, bring him back to the room. If not, Red Alert has mechs available.::

Prowl looked at Jazz again, who looked back, visor shining blue. Prowl smirked. ::I don't believe that will be necessary, sir.::

::Nonetheless, they are available.:: The Prime closed the link.

The doorwinger sighed, turning his face into the softness of his pillow.

“They lookin’?” Jazz asked quietly. Prowl mumbled an affirmative. Jazz laughed. “Primus, love, you're tuckered out.”

“Of course I am, I haven't had nearly enough sleep.” Still, Prowl forced himself into a sitting position. He let his optics close, falling into a short doze before he shook himself out of it.

“Come on,” Prowl said, tapping a knuckle against Jazz’s plating. “Prime wants you back in your room.”

Jazz rolled out of the berth and onto the floor, catching himself soundlessly and hopping to his pedes. “Do I gotta wear the cuffs, still? Those things itch.”

“Probably.” Prowl reached under his pillow, retrieving his knife. He threw it into subspace, ignoring the look Jazz cast his way. “They can't risk it, not while you're still a threat.”

Jazz pouted. “You think I'm a threat?”

Prowl walked over to the door, touching the contact and watching it slide open. “Of course I do.” The black and white mech hesitated, looking over his shoulder. “Just… not to me.”

Prowl hurried out before he could hear Jazz’s reply. (Before he could think on his words.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will come with art!!!!  
> I hope I've made the transitions in Prowl's dreams clear, like how the scene with his unnamed (cough) partner switched from the gardens to a residential suite. Because with dreams, it's not like you notice things like that happening, most of the time.  
> I have most of an idea of the final two arcs that I will write. These arcs are (as perhaps some may have noticed) focused around Prowl and me either revealing his past, hurting him, developing his relationship with Jazz, or any combination of the above. Past this Jazz-defection arc, there are three remaining, two of which I have yet to write. Each arc is about four to six chapters, so I'm guessing there will be about 40-ish chapters total to this fic :))))  
> Please please comment, I want to know whether I sort of slushed past a proper reconciliation between Prowl and Jazz in this chapter.


	21. Chapter 21

Optimus Prime could not have been more surprised to see Prowl walked up the hall with Jazz at his side, the two of them utterly calm. With the way Prowl had stormed out the night before, Optimus would have expected some sort of– well, not struggle, but resistance on one or both of their parts.

Jazz entered the interrogation room without comment, though he murmured something to Prowl that prompted a small smile– the first Optimus had ever seen from the doorwinger.

Optimus stepped into the observation room to look through the glass, watching as Jazz threw himself casually into the interrogatee chair.

“Cuffs or no, Prowler?” The silver mech directed his question to Prowl, his voice slightly fuzzy through the intercom system.

Reaching into his subspace, Prowl produced a set of magnacuffs. “Yes, because no one in their right mind would let you roam free.”

“Guess you ain't in your right mind, love.” Jazz grinned up at the doorwinger as Prowl stepped around behind him. Jazz didn't resist as Prowl cuffed his servos behind his back, magnetizing the cuffs to the chair.

“Of the two of us?” Prowl met the Decepticon’s gaze for a moment, his lips just barely twitching upwards. “You know the answer to that.”

Jazz laughed. “That I do.” He settled into the chair, shifting about excessively before relaxing. “So where are my interrogators, huh?”

Prowl looked towards the observation room, meeting Optimus’s optics with unnerving accuracy considering the doorwinger couldn't even see him.

A comm. request pinged, and Optimus opened it.

::Sir?:: Prowl asked, his question clear.

Optimus glanced at Ironhide, Ratchet, and Red Alert. The three of them looked back at him expectantly, though Ironhide looked more demanding than expectant.

::Come into the observation room. I believe it's time for your explanation.:: Optimus replied.

Prowl’s face didn't change, but his doorwings flared. ::Yes, sir.:: He shut the link.

“Somethin’ up, love?” Jazz asked. Optimus caught the word ‘love’ for the second time, and wondered on it briefly before setting the question aside.

Prowl looked at the silver mech, pursing his lips. “Explanations are expected of me,” he said shortly.

Jazz’s expression grew serious. He didn't not obviously look to the mirrored window, but Optimus felt his stare anyway. “Of course,” he said, and his voice had dropped from a husky tone to a low growl.

The doorwinger huffed and shook his helm. “Don't go anywhere.”

“I won't if I don't have to.” Jazz turned his helm openly to the window. Though his gaze was hidden, and he couldn’t see anyone anyway, Optimus felt some part of his spark shudder with primal apprehension.

Prowl left the room without further comment, entering the observation room a few moments later.

Shutting the door, Prowl turned to face Optimus. Though it wasn't obvious, the doorwinger seemed to be rather nervous. He looked from Optimus to Ironhide, to Ratchet and Red Alert, before his cool gaze settled on Optimus once more.

“You want an explanation, sir?”

The Prime nodded. “Yes. It is concerning, that you are so well acquainted with a Decepticon of Jazz’s caliber.”

Prowl glanced into the interrogation room. “Will my testimony affect his defection process?”

Perhaps Optimus should not have been surprised, but nonetheless he was. “It may,” he admitted after a moment, ignoring Ironhide’s discontent grunt.

The doorwinger took a breath, clasped his servos behind his back, and nodded. “Very well.” He pursed his lips. “We met when I was stationed at Uraya, during a raid I directed on a Decepticon outpost. I was injured during the raid, and Jazz found me in a corridor. He was… intrigued by me, and helped me get to safety before disappearing.” Prowl paused, looking at the officers’ faces as though gauging their reactions.

“Several weeks later,” Prowl continued, “He contacted me with a message containing a time and a set of coordinates. I… arrived at the proposed time and met him.”

Ironhide made some noise between a huff and a short.

Prowl’s doorwings twitched but he gave no other reaction as he went on. “He explained that he had become… fascinated by me, while watching my performance during the raid. That was why he saved me. He offered…” Prowl frowned. “An exchange, of sorts. He would learn of me, and I would learn of him. I agreed.

“He stayed at Uraya for several days, impersonating an Autobot and initiating conversation with me while I was off-duty. Du-”

Red Alert cut off Prowl’s next words. “You let a _Decepticon_ stay in an _Autobot_ base without reporting it?!”

Prowl stared at Red Alert blankly. “Yes…” He dragged the word out, and though it wasn't posed as a question his confusion was clear. “I made no report as to his presence.” The word ‘obviously’ went unsaid.

“What if he had used his position to steal intel?” Red Alert demanded furiously.

“He did not. He was staying at Uraya due to proximity to me, not for any mission.” Prowl frowned slightly.

Optimus lifted a servo to cut off Red Alert’s tirade. “Continue, Prowl.”

Prowl glanced up at Optimus, and the Prime thought he saw something flicker behind the doorwinger’s gaze. “Of course, sir,” Prowl said.

“During the attack on Uraya, Jazz alerted me to the situation in tactical– of Haloid’s death and Zenith’s poor performance. He urged me to come back to base and take action.” Prowl continued before any questions could be posed. “He said he wanted to see me do it.”

“And you followed his suggestion?” Ratchet looked, not at Prowl but at Jazz, a deep frown turning his mouth.

“I did.” Prowl followed Ratchet’s gaze before turning his face back to Optimus. “As you are aware, I was transferred to Iacon not long after the attack. Jazz followed me.” Prowl paused. “He hacked the systems and registered himself under the name ‘Triaxial’, acting as that persona around the base.”

Red Alert’s optics widened. "Triaxial? The mech who survived from Ironside’s unit?”

“Yes.” Prowl’s gaze dropped to the floor. “During the mission wherein Barricade revealed himself to be a Decepticon, Jazz was captured alongside us. He freed the two of us before we left the base, as detailed in the report I submitted to Smokescreen afterwards.”

The name Barricade niggled at some part of Optimus’s memory. “What can you tell me of Barricade? Were you well acquainted with him?” He asked.

Prowl’s optics flashed, and his doorwings lowered. “He was my mentor during my formative years. We parted ways when I left Praxus.” His jaw clenched. “I was unaware that he was a Decepticon until that mission.”

Ironhide huffed. “Looks like you're pretty in with the ‘Cons. How many other Decepticons do you know, huh?”

“None.” Prowl rolled his shoulders. “Anyway… Jazz stayed in Iacon for several months. After-” Prowl stopped, his voice catching slightly. Optimus opened his mouth to speak, but Prowl hurried on. “After the fall of Praxus, Jazz was called back to Megatron. I didn't see him again until a few days ago.”

Ironhide spoke before Optimus could. “Why?”

Prowl blinked. “Why what?”

“Why did he come back? Or why did you go to him?” Ironhide glowered.

“I…” Prowl looked at the Decepticon, still sitting silent in the interrogation room. “He came to me. I don't know why.”

“You didn't ask?” Ironhide crossed his arms over his chest.

Prowl shook his helm. “Of course I did. He dodged the question, and I didn't ask again.”

“Uh huh. So you just let him waltz back into an Autobot base after nine decades of no contact and working under Megatron.”

Black and white doorwings twitched. “Jazz is not as faithful a Decepticon as most. He makes his own choices.”

Ironhide snorted. “Right, so we should trust him? I'm guessing you've forgotten about this mech’s stellar reputation.”

“I have not forgotten. But–”

“Prime, I don't think we can trust Prowl’s testimony on Jazz. He's clearly biased.” Ironhide turned his stare on Optimus.

“Sometimes bias is good, Ironhide,” the Prime replied. “Prowl has seen a side to Jazz that none of us have. This gives him a unique perspective on the mech.”

Prowl cut in. “I- I'm not saying Jazz may not be lying about some things. But I believe him to be… trustworthy.”

“That's not what you were saying seven hours ago,” Ironhide said flatly.

Those doorwings flared, and Prowl seemed to bite the inside of his lip. “We spoke,” he said at last. “Discussed a few things.”

“Spoke? When?” Ironhide’s nose wrinkled at the bridge.

“Not long after Jazz was left in the room for the night,” Prowl replied, nodding to the window in indication. “He escaped his cuffs and… came to me.”

Ironhide pressed his lips together. “And you talked.”

“Yes.”

“Instead of reporting his escape to me or Red Alert.”

“Yes.”

Ironhide threw his servos in the air. “Primus fraggin’–” He darted forward suddenly, shoving Prowl against the wall by the window. “Do you even care about security? Letting your fraggin’ Decepticon run around the base like he fraggin’ owns it.”

The tactician lifted his servos, though he made no attempt to resist. “I-”

Ironhide pressed a forearm to Prowl’s throat, setting his weight on it. “Shut up, I'm done with your excuses.”

Optimus stepped forward. “Ironhide, I-”

“Let him go, or I break this window and kill all o’ you.”

Jazz’s voice carried through both the intercom and the window itself. He had risen from his chair, wrists cuff-free, and stood at the window mere centimeters from Ironhide. His expression was stony, radiating threat through the set of his shoulders and the glint of his claws.

The whole room froze. Ratchet and Red Alert, who had watched Ironhide’s interrogation with some amount of perturbation, did little more than jump. Ironhide and Optimus, already tense, hardly moved.

Prowl remained still, servos slightly raised. His optics widened, but he otherwise didn't move.

Optimus was thrown by how clearly Jazz’s gaze had locked on Ironhide, confusion flashing through him before the glint of Jazz’s visor gave realization.

Of course, Optimus thought, it would not be a simple visor. It more than likely had augmentations. That explained how he could see through the mirrored surface of the window.

“Ironhide,” Optimus said after a long moment had passed. “Release Prowl.”

The red Autobot growled but obeyed, releasing Prowl without any final vindictive action. He stepped over to Optimus’s side, servos clenched into fists.

“‘M sorry, Prime,” Ironhide muttered under his breath. “Temper got the better of me.”

Optimus bent his helm to his friend. “I understand you're angry. I will not fault you for it. However…” Optimus looked up at the corner where Prowl still stood.

The doorwinger had turned his shoulder to the room, angled himself towards the window. His servo had come up to rub his throat. Jazz had stepped forwards, bent as close as he could to the doorwinger with the glass separating them.

A silver claw rose up to tap the glass lightly, and over the intercom came a soft, “Shoulda brought that knife, eh, Prowler?”

Prowl’s gaze flicked up from the floor, and his lips curled briefly into a smile. He murmured something Optimus couldn't hear, but it sparked a returning smile from Jazz.

Optimus looked back to Ironhide. “I believe there is hope for Jazz. We will see.”

Ironhide shook his helm. “I don't trust him, and I don't trust Prowl.”

“You don't have to, my friend. But I ask that you trust me.”

The red mech sighed, brought a servo up to rub his optics as the anger drained from his frame. “I will, Optimus. I do.”

Optimus smiled. “Thank you.”

Turning his gaze on Ratchet, Optimus beckoned the medic closer. “What did you garner from your assessment?”

Ratchet blinked, glancing at Prowl in the corner for a moment. “He's genuine in his desire to defect, for the most part. One of those decisions that was a long time coming but when it did he almost chickened out.”

Optimus hummed and nodded, encouraging Ratchet to continue.

“He's more disillusioned to the Decepticons –not that he had any illusions in the first place– than he is willing to join the Autobots. In fact, he'd probably have just gone neutral if not for…” Ratchet let the sentence trail, indicating Prowl with a nod of his helm.

“I see.” Optimus looked to Prowl for a moment, standing hunched and defensive in the corner, then to Jazz, guarding the doorwinger even with a barrier between them. “And if we were to allow him to defect?”

Ratchet pressed his lips together. “He has valuable skills, certainly, and a lot of experience to back them. Whatever intel he has may be compromised, but it'd be somewhat useful anyway. He'd be a real asset to Ops, if he gets through probation.”

Optimus allowed himself a smile. “And other than his professional performance?”

The old medic huffed and smirked. “Mech doesn't seem like it on the surface, but he's got a loyal streak that runs deep. If we managed to win his loyalty, well,” Ratchet looked pointedly to Prowl again, “I think the past few minutes speak for themselves.” Optimus nodded, and Ironhide snorted.

“His empathy pistons are rusty, but they still work,” Ratchet went on. “He's got rules for himself, and those are the first step towards actual morals. With time and work, I think he could be a good Autobot.”

Optimus Prime smiled. “That is what I wanted to hear.” He met his two friends’ optics evenly. “I would like to take this chance with Jazz. Will you support me?”

Ironhide sighed. “I might not agree with it, Prime, but I'll support you, sure.”

“Of course, Optimus,” Ratchet said simply.

Optimus looked at Red Alert, who simply pursed his lips and nodded.

“Very well.” Optimus drew himself up to his full height. “I will inform Stormset of my decision. Red Alert, Ratchet, please escort Jazz to the medbay.”

At the corner, Prowl and Jazz looked up. Prowl looked surprised, while Jazz had retreated behind a mask of cautious arrogance.

Optimus offered them a small, encouraging smile. “Congratulations, Jazz, you will soon be a probationary Autobot.”

“Heh, a probie, huh?” Jazz scoffed and made a face. “Primus, the word probie’s changed a lot in my processor since I last used it.” He grinned at Prowl and winked. Prowl huffed.

“As for you, Prowl…” Optimus considered the doorwinger for a moment. “You will be –in an unofficial aspect– Jazz’s probation officer, of sorts. I will leave the enactment of that role up to you.”

Prowl’s smile from Jazz’s jesting dropped at once, but he didn't say anything.

With a nod to the room, Optimus said, “Now, I believe I do have a considerable amount of paperwork to write up.”

The Prime left the observation room satisfied, ignoring the door of the interrogation room, which opened and closed quickly while Jazz slipped into the room Optimus had just vacated.

Walking down the halls, Optimus smiled to himself.

This would be interesting. And hopefully beneficial– both to the Autobots, and to Jazz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is one of my favourite chapters, honestly. I love it so much. And, as promised, art!
> 
>  
> 
> <https://myrddin-does-art.tumblr.com/post/179163312741/been-sitting-on-this-one-for-a-while-because-the>  
> 
> 
>   
> My birthday is on the 21st this month, so that's awesome. I'm planning to get a tattoo and I'm still torn between Prowl's chevron, Prowl's name in Circular Gallifreyan because aesthetic, both of them in one design (which I have made), or a bible verse. I'll probably go for the Bible verse, bitch got me through some shitty nights when I was a kid.  
> As always, please comment! I want to know if you guys love this chapter as much as I do :) 


	22. Chapter 22

Prowl stepped into Tactical and found it had changed very little in the past two-thirds of a century. He even recognized a few faces, including Smokescreen’s second in command, Redstart, who stared balefully at Prowl from across the room.

Perturbed, Prowl turned his gaze from the other tactician, looking to Smokescreen’s office. As if called by Prowl’s attention, the door opened, and Smokescreen stepped out. Upon catching sight of Prowl, the TacHead nodded to the inside of his office.

With a discreet glance at Redstart, who still glared, Prowl made his way through the room and into Smokescreen’s office.

“I see you noticed Redstart,” Smokescreen said by way of greeting as he stepped behind his desk and sat down.

“I did, yes.” Prowl obeyed the wave of Smokescreen’s servo and sat in the guest chair. “I don't recall him disliking me before I left.”

“That's because he didn't.” Smokescreen braced his elbows on the desk. “You're– well, you aren't being promoted, but your position in Iacon will be as it was when you were in Kalis.”

Surprise had Prowl’s doorwings flaring wide, and Smokescreen’s wings fluttered in answer.

“You're more than qualified for the position,” Smokescreen said kindly. “Redstart will recover from his frustration. He's a good mech, and a good tactician, but everyone in this department knows you're the best. I wouldn't be surprised if Optimus promotes you over me eventually.”

“I-” Prowl couldn't think of anything to say in reply.

Smokescreen smiled and shook his head. “I just wanted to inform you, you don't have to say anything.” He sat back in his chair. “I hope to see you do good work, Prowl.”

“I’ll do my best, sir.”

“I'm sure you will.” Smokescreen’s smile widened. “Dismissed.”

Prowl stood from the chair and stepped out of the office. Judging by the looks Prowl got as he headed over to a console, word had spread of Redstart’s demotion.

Ignoring the stares, Prowl sat down at the console he'd chosen and plugged in. There was work to be done.

 

With his attention to his datapad, Prowl sidestepped other hall-goers.

It was not particularly pressing work –it was only a couple outlines made by junior tacticians– Prowl found it a good excuse not to look up at other bots.

Word had traveled fast, as it does in military bases. Everyone knew that Prowl was somehow connected to the Decepticon whose defection had been accepted. Jazz’s name was not mentioned, but it undoubtedly would be known soon enough. And then the whispers would intensify, and the stares grow sharper.

Prowl hated standing out. Hated having so many eyes on him. And so he walked with his helm bent to a datapad, so he could pretend to ignore the stares and murmurs of passing mecha.

Stepping into the rec. room, Prowl felt at once the tens of optics that turned to him. They followed him to the dispenser, and then to the table that Prowl chose, deep in the corner of the room.

With one servo holding the energon, and one holding his datapad, Prowl ducked his helm and carefully ignored all those stares. One by one, they all drifted away, until Prowl was at last forgotten in favor of conversation. (Conversation about him, of course. The Decepticon-fragger, the Autobot that gave such good head that the ‘Con couldn’t help but defect just so he could use that mouth more often. The nature of the rumors was unsurprising, but that did not make them any less unpalatable.)

Despite how his tank clenched, Prowl forced himself to take a sip of his energon. It slid down his throat, and a pulse of pain reminded Prowl of the dented cables of his neck, which still sat unrepaired.

Grimacing, Prowl released his datapad and lifted a servo, touching the cables delicately.

“You should fix those,” Jazz said as he dropped into the other chair of Prowl’s two-seat table, a cube of energon in his servo and his visor glowing blue.

Somehow unsurprised by Jazz’s appearance, Prowl let his servo drop. “Shouldn’t you be going over relevant intel with Stormset?”

“We finished that up. Mechs were goin’ over it when I left.” Jazz shrugged. “No one stopped me, so…”

“You shouldn’t be roaming base without an escort, not for the first few months of your probation.”

Jazz flashed a grin. “Well, I got you, don’t I?”

A small smile turned Prowl’s lips, and he sighed. “If Red Alert or Stormset comms me, I’ll hand you over to them without hesitation.”

“What a betrayal.” Jazz’s grin widened, and he brought his cube up to his mouth and took a long sip.

That's him, said some mech at another table. The Decepticon. He's a looker, I can see why the number-cruncher fell for him.

Jazz gave no sign he heard the gossip, though he undoubtedly did. Prowl only ducked his helm and worked harder to ignore them.

“So Red Alert told me where my new quarters are,” Jazz said conversationally. “They're across from yours.”

Prowl glanced up. “That's convenient.”

“Mm, yeah. Means you can take me down in case I go off and kill a bunch of mechs.”

“Because the proximity of our quarters means I’ll be able to find you if you killed some mecha and ran away,” Prowl said wryly. The next sip of his energon sat less heavily in his tanks than the first. Prowl did not let himself consider that he felt more at ease with Jazz present.

Jazz winked. “Obviously.” He drummed his digits on the table. “Ratchet locked down my weapons systems, which is inconvenient.”

One black and white doorwing twitched. “I didn't realize you had any.”

The silver mech huffed, grinning. “Yeah, I don't use ‘em often. Not like I'm gonna go around sniping mechs. Red Alert confiscated all my weapons, though, which is also inconvenient.”

“Well it’s a good thing you don't need them to be an effective fighter.”

“True,” Jazz agreed. “Feels better to have at least a knife on me, though.”

Prowl sipped from his cube. “So it does.”

Jazz slouched in his chair, throwing one arm over the back as his legs sprawled underneath the table. He tapped a rhythm on his cube. “And how was your work, love?”

“Unremarkable.” Prowl reached over to the datapad, still lying on the table, and turned it off. “I've been placed as Smokescreen’s second in command.”

Jazz gave a slow, appreciative nod. “‘Least you won't have to change the ranking glyphs.”

“At least.” Prowl looked about the room. “Smokescreen’s previous second was displeased, understandably. I would rather not make an enemy of the mech. Or anyone.”

The saboteur nodded again. “Associating with me might make you quite a few enemies, Prowler.” He tilted his helm. His expression was serious. “They're gonna be watchin’ me closely all through my probation, if I even make it through.”

Prowl considered his response carefully, discarding several possibilities. At last he settled on saying, “So I am aware.”

“Hmm.” Jazz lifted his cube and gulped down the rest of his energon. Crushing the cube into an uneven ball of metal, Jazz said, “Come on and finish up. Let's go see my new quarters.”

If only to defy the saboteur, Prowl took his time finishing up his cube. He went through the junior tacs’ outlines, highlighting the errors he found. They were refreshingly few, and Prowl made sure to note that.

Swallowing the last of his energon, Prowl banished both cube and datapad to subspace. “Let's go.”

Jazz stood, his chair screeching along the floor. Prowl stood in turn, ducking his helm against the stares that turned afresh to the two of them.

It took all of Prowl’s will not to run from the room, his back itching uncomfortably beneath the weight of all those optics. When they finally made it out of the rec. room, Prowl let out an audible sigh.

“Not enjoying the public eye?” Jazz asked (because of course he'd noticed Prowl’s discomfort).

Shaking his helm to dispel the last of the itch, Prowl said, “No.” Turning on his heel, Prowl set off on the route back to his quarters. (Now the route to Jazz’s quarters, as well, and didn't that feel odd.)

Jazz quickly caught up to him, and they settled into an easy pace.

“The rumors are bothering you,” Jazz said after a few moments of silence.

“...Yes.” Prowl’s servo clenched briefly, so tight that it hurt. Jazz opened his mouth to speak, but Prowl cut him off. “You can't do anything about it. They will fade eventually.”

Jazz frowned but didn't dwell on the topic. After a minute longer, they reached the two opposite doorways marking Prowl’s quarters and Jazz’s.

Stepping up to the other door, Jazz typed in the default code. The door clicked open, and Jazz spent a few moments reprogramming the code into something far more elaborate. Prowl didn't bother to track what it was.

After deeming his work finished, Jazz stepped into the room, a flick of his wrist indicating that Prowl follow.

The room looked no different from Prowl’s, save the placing of the furniture. A desk, chair, and berth sat in the room, the desk in the left corner and the berth in the right.

With a flick of his wings, Prowl scanned the room, and found the pinging presence of several surveillance devices. Glancing at Jazz, Prowl saw the mech turning his gaze slowly to each device’s hidden location.

“It's to be expected,” Prowl said quietly, as if volume could keep the microphones from picking up his voice.

“You think I'd be in trouble if I took ‘em out?” Jazz looked up at one corner of the ceiling, which held what seemed to be a button camera.

“They would only be replaced.” Prowl turned his helm to look at the camera as well, only to hiss softly as the movement strained his damaged neck cables.

Jazz’s gaze snapped to the doorwinger. He paused visibly, considering Prowl for a moment. “Come on, let’s see your room. I wanna check if the dimensions are the same or if one of us has a secret panel hidden somewhere.”

The excuse was glaringly obvious, but Prowl did not argue as they left Jazz’s room and crossed the short distance to Prowl’s door. Typing in the code, Prowl stepped inside as the door opened. Jazz followed, closing the door behind him.

Flicking his wings, Prowl scanned the room, and sighed with relief when he found no similar surveillance devices.

“You thought they'd be watchin’ you too?” Jazz asked as he stepped further into the room.

“I wouldn't put it past Red Alert or Ironhide to request it.” Prowl paused. “I would have, if I had to deal with this sort of situation.”

“Good to know.” Jazz sat down on the berth and patted the space next to him. “Come here, love, let me look at your neck.”

Prowl went to him without thinking, sinking down on the berth before he even realized it. (He shouldn’t trust Jazz so easily, shouldn’t trust him at all.)

Jazz lifted his servos, his movements clear and slow enough that Prowl could easily pull away. Prowl didn't, letting Jazz tilt his chin up. Gentle fingers ran over the delicate cables of Prowl’s neck, and Prowl tensed against the shiver that threatened to overtake his frame.

The silver mech paused, and his voice was soft when he said, “You okay?”

“Fine,” Prowl whispered in reply. “You can repair the damage?”

Jazz nodded. “Yeah, it's not too bad.” His thumb brushed the line of Prowl’s jaw. “Ironhide shouldn't’ve done that to you.”

“He was angry, it's understandable.”

“Prowl, I may be –have been– a Decepticon, but even I know that mechs ain't supposed to beat on their subordinates.”

Prowl stared at the far wall, gaze clouded by memory. “Of course,” he murmured.

Jazz sighed and pulled a magnetic stylus from his subspace. “Hold still,” he said, tilting Prowl’s helm further.

It was unexpected, how gentle Jazz’s touch was. He pulled out the dents with practiced skill, causing no more than the usual ache that such repairs brought. With each dent he pulled, he ran a thumb over the newly smoothed area. A low, baritone hum filled the air, vibrating across Prowl’s wings in a way that soothed almost more than Jazz’s touch.

The last dent Jazz pulled snapped back into place with a small pop, and Prowl winced.

Jazz cooed apologetically, bending his helm. Prowl stilled as gentle lips pressed against the afflicted part of his neck, a mere moment of contact that sent electricity lancing through Prowl’s frame.

Prowl’s lips parted in a silent gasp. Jazz pulled back, but only barely, his face all but pressed into the crook of Prowl’s neck. His servos hovered in a likewise manner, not quite touching, one at Prowl’s arm and the other at his jaw.

“What are you thinkin’, Prowl?” Jazz murmured, lips brushing Prowl’s neck as he spoke.

Slowly, hesitantly, Prowl bent his helm until his cheek brushed Jazz’s helm. “What are we?” Prowl asked, in a voice so soft he hardly heard it.

“Whatever you want us to be.”

Terror flared in Prowl’s spark, and he didn't quite know why. “And what is this?” This thing, right here, right now. The touches, the kiss, the heat that swelled in Prowl’s abdomen.

The servo hovering at Prowl’s jaw descended enough to brush against it. “Whatever you want,” Jazz replied, and this time he elaborated. “One good night, a chance to release tension… Or more.”

Everything Jazz didn't say lingered in the air, a whisper of promise. It was terrifying. Terrifying how much Prowl wanted, and how he didn't in equal measure.

“What do you want?” Prowl asked. He didn't know if the tremble in his voice was caused by fear or… or something else.

Jazz sighed heavily, frame sagging for a short moment. “You. Whatever way you let me.”

He'd known that would be the answer (why would he have known?) and still, hearing the truth was more terrifying than he had thought it would be.

Prowl didn't know why he was so frightened, why his spark pulsed with panic. (He did know. He did.)

“I can't,” Prowl whispered, soft and frantic. “I can't– I can't give–” 

“Shh…” Jazz pulled back, but only enough that he could face Prowl. Jazz’s frame was warm, soothing the tremors that threatened to wrack Prowl’s frame.

“It's alright,” Jazz said. “It's alright, I understand.” There were more words, shining in the depths Jazz’s visor. Words Prowl couldn't understand, yet they scared him still. “I won't ask for what you can't give, Prowl. Won't offer what you don't want.”

It took Prowl a long time to find his words. “You're the first friend I've had in a very long time. I can't ask for anything more.” He couldn’t, wouldn’t. Shouldn’t reach for something that would hurt him if he held it. Something that would fill him with warmth and leave him cold in the end.

“I understand,” Jazz replied, and Prowl knew that he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I did that. I put it in your hands and I snatched it away. Why? Because this is a slow burn and I also don't know how established relationships actually work.  
> As of now, 34 chapters have been completed, and I'm guessing this fic will end up at 38, so we're almost there :DD  
> Comments are my lifeblood. I know I haven't been replying to most and I'll try to change that, because you guys are what's keeping me going with this fic :))


	23. Chapter 23

“You have to go to Ratchet,” Prowl insisted, hurrying to keep up with Jazz without actually looking like he was running after the mech.

The silver mech scowled, quickening his pace. “You can fix it, can't you?”

“I can barely do field repairs, let alone _fix_ things. You have to go to Ratchet!”

“Damn medic fraggin’ hates me, I ain't goin’ near him.”

Putting on a short burst of speed, Prowl reached out and grabbed Jazz’s arm, bringing the mech to a halt. Jazz spun about, plating flared, and Prowl’s gaze flicked down to the energon on his frame, the scorched wound in his side.

Pulling his optics up to Jazz’s visor, Prowl said, “Ratchet is a professional. He doesn't let his personal feelings get in the way of treating a patient.”

“That's slag and you know it.” Jazz turned to walk on, and Prowl had to pull hard on his arm to bring Jazz back about.

“What happened?” Prowl asked earnestly, confusion and determination mixing together in his chest.

Jazz bared his teeth in a grimace. “Routine patrol. Mechs were afts, but I could deal with it. Then I thought I felt some sparks nearby.” Jazz waved to his horns. “My sensors had a wider radius; they couldn’t sense it. Mechs thought I was fraggin’ around, tryna sabotage.” His servo clenched at his side. “When the ‘Cons attacked, mechs wouldn't let me fight ‘em. Was only after the first Autobot went down that I just up and took ‘em on. Whole trip back they were sayin’ like it's _my_ fault. My fault that stupid ‘Bot is laid in the medbay with a hole in him.”

The past two-and-a-half months had been… difficult. Jazz had found all the rules oppressive and the standards irritating. The weeks he'd been going through training sims with Ironhide had been particularly bad, as every other decision Jazz made was deemed un-Autobot. The stares and whispers had not faded with time, and it seemed to Prowl that they were only grating on Jazz’s frayed temper.

“I believe you, Jazz,” Prowl said reassuringly. He took a step forward until he was close enough to have embraced Jazz if he wanted. (Which he didn't. Shouldn't.)

The silver mech only scowled. “You'd be the only one,” he muttered.

“It's protocol to conduct a processor scan, similar to your assessment, after a defector’s patrol. Your memories will vouch for you, however unpleasant the process of getting them may be.” Prowl found himself reaching out slowly, touching the bare plating where Jazz’s insignia would be. His digits came away marked with energon.

Frowning, Prowl looked over Jazz’s frame. “How much of this is yours?”

“Dunno.” Jazz sighed heavily. “Wouldn't even have gotten shot, probably, if those slaggers hadn't held me back.”

Spying a painful looking dent in one of Jazz’s horns, Prowl frowned deeper. “Well, at least you followed their orders for as long as you could. That will reflect well.”

“Ain't gonna do slag if that ‘Bot dies.”

“He won't die, he looked stable when the medics took him.”

Jazz shook his helm. “Slag happens.” His expression was stormy as he stared at the ground, servos clenching and unclenching at his sides.

Puzzled, Prowl leaned forward until he could tilt his helm and just catch Jazz’s lowered gaze. “Why do you care so much?” Prowl asked, his frown fading quizzically.

The silver mech lifted his helm, and Prowl stilled at the soft glow in Jazz’s visor, the way the hard line of his mouth softened.

There had been no further discussion of that talk they had. Their conduct together had hardly changed, as far as Prowl could tell. There was only that lingering truth. The one that Jazz had all but admitted, had offered. And Prowl had refused it, because of a fear he did and didn't understand.

The moment had drawn on for too long when Jazz said, “Maybe I'm turnin’ Autobot faster than we thought.”

Prowl took the way out for what it was. “Maybe.” He took a step back, and felt cold even though they'd never touched. “Come with me, I'll take you to the medbay.”

“I already said no,” Jazz protested, but his words held no resolve.

Reaching out, Prowl wrapped his digits about Jazz’s wrist, pulling gently until the silver mech began to follow. The walk to the medbay was not long, but neither was it pleasant. Glares bored into both of them as they passed other Autobots, word of the failed patrol having traveled as quickly as word can in an army base.

“Run off to your tac-bot, Decepticon?” called one particularly bold mech, a frontliner by all appearances. “Maybe you should let us try him out sometime.”

Jazz would have broken away from Prowl’s side had the doorwinger not tightened his grip. As it was, Jazz nearly pulled the lighter mech off his feet as he lunged towards the bold Autobot.

“Maybe I should see how you like bein’ _beat_ to death!” Jazz snarled.

Prowl pulled hard on Jazz’s arm, looping his elbow through the silver mech’s and dragging him away. “Come _on_ , Jazz.”

Emboldened by their fellow’s call, the other mecha jeered in turn, though they thankfully did not follow as Prowl pushed his way through the doors of the medbay.

“Shoulda let me at him, Prowl.” Jazz growled, pulling out of Prowl’s grasp.

“Your position is already tenuous, if you'd beat him up– I can't say for sure what would happen.”

Jazz’s plating flared, and he raised a clenched fist. “Wouldn't've beat him up, woulda beat his Primus damned face until it caved.”

Prowl opened his mouth to reply, only to notice the medics and few patients were staring. In one corner, Prowl saw the injured mech from Jazz’s patrol, lying on a berth and apparently unconscious.

Drawing his attention back to the furious saboteur, Prowl said, “You can't just–”

“Jazz.” Ratchet’s voice was flat, and his expression stern, as he cut through Prowl’s words. “You look like slag.”

“Shoulda seen the other guy,” Jazz replied in a similarly flat tone.

“Hn.” Ratchet glanced at Prowl briefly before setting his glare on Jazz once more. “Well, get your aft on a berth, I'll fix you up.”

Jazz obliged slowly, hauling himself to sit on the berth with a nearly unnoticeable grimace. Every line of his frame was tense as Ratchet turned to get a scanner.

“If you don't need medical care,” Ratchet grunted at Prowl, “then get outta here. Can't have mechs takin’ up space.”

Jazz tensed even further, visor flaring faintly. Prowl spoke without thinking.

“I've actually been having a few spark pains. Perhaps First Aid could check it out,” Prowl said, perhaps a little too quickly. Ratchet snorted dubiously but waved First Aid over anyway.

The white and red mech bustled over, gesturing Prowl to get on the berth. Prowl did so, watching as First Aid waved a scanner over his chest.

“Would you like to lie down?” First Aid asked absently, reading the scanner’s screen.

“I- no, I'd rather not,” Prowl replied, glancing over to Jazz, who had just been forced to lie down by Ratchet so the medic could start work on the flank wound. Jazz was more rigid than a metal rod, his gaze boring a hole into the ceiling. Then his helm lolled to the side, and Prowl took the opportunity to catch Jazz’s optic and offer a small, reassuring smile. Jazz didn't relax at all, but his stiff lips curled upwards somewhat.

“How long have you been experiencing these spark pains?” First Aid asked,

Turning his gaze on the medic, Prowl said, “Since I was a newbuild.” The first thing Prowl experienced upon coming online was a consistent ache in his spark that swelled into a piercing ache before fading.

Both Jazz and Ratchet looked over, and though Ratchet went back to his work, Jazz remained staring.

First Aid frowned slightly. “I see. And how often do you experience them?”

“Not often. The last time before this was over a century ago.”

“I see.” First Aid set aside the scanner and drew out a datapad. He plugged into it briefly, long enough to download some data. “This isn't in your medical record, have you ever seen another medic about this?”

“Never.” Prowl hadn't been planning to either. This was something from his past, something that was surely connected to his defectiveness. (Which was why it was such a bad idea to associate with Jazz. He spilled a hint of his defective past just so he could stay nearby for Jazz. It was idiotic, stupid, moronic. ~~He didn't know why he would do that~~.)

“Hm.” First Aid pursed his lips. “Your medical history is very spotty, especially in your formative years. There's nothing solid until you joined the Praxian police force.”

“Clerical errors.”

The corner of the young medic’s mouth twitched downwards. “I guess.” He subspaced the datapad and picked up the scanner again, adjusting the settings. “When did these pains start up again?”

“Eleven days ago.”

“Could you describe them?” First Aid ran the scanner over Prowl’s chest slowly.

Prowl bit the inside of his lower lip. “It starts out as a dull ache that increases into a… sharp pain before fading into an ache again and then disappearing entirely.”

First Aid had circled about to the other side of the berth, scanning the area of Prowl’s back where his spark was located. “How long do these episodes last?”

“Ten to fifteen minutes.” Prowl’s back prickled under the scanner even though the device didn't touch him, and he resisted the urge to arch away from it.

“Mhm." First Aid came back around to stand before Prowl, gaze running over the data on the scanner. “There doesn't seem to be anything abnormal from the scan. I'd like to examine your spark directly. If you would follow me to–”

“No.” The word fell from Prowl’s lips before he could stop it.

First Aid blinked. Surprised, the medic said, “I mean, if that's what you want. But I would really like to conduct a full tes–”

“Th’ mech said no, Aid,” Jazz said, cutting the white and red bot off. “Back off.”

Ratchet flicked Jazz’s plating. “Don't talk to my mechs like that,” the old mech scolded.

First Aid looked back to Prowl apologetically. “Sorry, Prowl.” He looked at the scanner again. “According to the scans, your spark is operating fine. I would like to get a scan while an episode is occurring, so please comm. me if one starts.”

“Of course.” (Prowl wouldn't.)

“On another topic,” First Aid went on, fiddling with the scanner again. “We’re going to be doing checkups on everyone. It's… an ongoing process–” a couple meters away, Ratchet snorted– “but since you're here, I might as well give you a checkup.”

Pursing his lips, Prowl glanced over at Jazz, still laid on the berth beneath Ratchet’s ministrations. Ratchet looked maybe halfway done, and checkups didn't take too long.

“...Very well.”

Prowl hated checkups, the poking and prodding and scanning and testing. It brought back memories. (He definitely wasn't doing this for Jazz.)

 

“You'll be expected to give your report,” Prowl said. He and Jazz stood outside one of the conference rooms. Inside the room, Optimus and the rest of the command staff waited for Jazz to enter.

“Following that, and provided there are no objections, someone –likely Ratchet– will perform the processor scan,” Prowl continued. His servos fidgeted, digits twisting together. He resisted the urge to swipe nonexistent dust from Jazz’s shoulders.

The silver mech tilted his helm, grinning slightly. “You seem nervous, Prowl. Y’worried for me?”

“No,” Prowl denied automatically. He sighed, shaking his helm. “It's just– I know what you're like. Don't go running your mouth, please.”

“Sure, Prowler, whatever you say.” Jazz’s grin widened cheekily, and Prowl couldn't help but smile back weakly. Jazz’s grin faded, expression growing serious. “Come on, love, it's all gonna be okay. I'll do my best, alright?”

The doorwinger huffed. “I should be the one reassuring you, not the other way around.”

“Y’already did that for me today, I'm just returning the favor.” Jazz smiled. “S’what friends are for, yeah?” His smile faded to something softer. “I don't think I could go through with this whole defection thing on my own. I'm glad you're here.” 

“That's what friends are for, right?”

The door to the conference room opened, and a blue grounder stepped out. It was the leader of Jazz’s patrol, and his name escaped Prowl’s memory for the moment. The mech glared hard at Jazz, looking at Prowl briefly before turning on his heel and marching away down the corridor.

Prowl looked to Jazz, and at last gave in to the urge to fuss over his friend’s appearance. He swiped a servo over Jazz’s shoulders to brush away dust that wasn't even there, scraped a nonexistent flake of paint from his collar.

Jazz laughed and raised his servos, held Prowl’s wrists and brought them down. “Stop nitpickin’, love, I look presentable enough.”

Biting his lip, Prowl replied, “Just- just be careful what you say.”

“I always am.” Jazz smiled and squeezed Prowl’s wrists gently before releasing them. Turning, he opened the conference room door and stepped inside.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Prowl leaned against the wall to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let's play a game called 'spot the retcon' uwu  
> Also, those who haven't noticed, please check the chapter count. That's right, I have completed this story on a prime number of chapters. Updates will now be weekly once more, and I'll do my best to clean up the last couple chapters which are sketchy due to how fast I wrote them (so desperate was I to complete this).  
> To those interested, I am utilizing my newly freed time to write a one shot sequel to Can't You Tell I'm Breaking. It will probably be out with next week's update, if not sooner.  
> Please comment! Although the last chapter marks a change in Prowl and Jazz's dynamic, this one acts it out, and I want to know what you guys think of it :))


	24. Chapter 24

“Here's the intel for your new project,” Smokescreen said, setting a datapad on Prowl’s console. “It's– well, none of them are routine, but it's an outpost takedown. You’ll be leading the unit.”

Prowl took the datapad and plugged it into the terminal, optics flickering subtly as the data streamed through the computer and into his processor. Prowl let the intel processing take a secondary thread as he reached for the unit roster.

Strikedown, Loopgain, Rhumb, Sideswipe, Sunstreaker, and Jazz.

Looking up at Smokescreen, Prowl said, “This is an evaluation for Jazz?”

Smokescreen nodded. “I'll confess, I don't think Optimus should have put you in charge of this mission. Jazz is predisposed towards you, meaning we won't truly know whether he's listening to leadership or a… friend. At least this will give him a chance to work with others.”

Prowl nodded, frowning slightly. “I share your concerns, but if Optimus chose this executively I don't know if we could change his mind.”

The TacHead nodded in agreement. “I am sure you will do well,” he said before leaving for his office.

As much as he would have liked to, Prowl did not let himself– well, he wouldn't have panicked, but perhaps experienced severe amount of concern and anxiety.

(Amber optics, slender doorwings, a hand about Prowl’s throat. He'd gone in, he’d come out, and everything had gone wrong.)

Prowl shook his head, banishing the memories. Closing his optics, Prowl collected himself, sucking in a few deep breaths. He clenched and unclenched his servo. With a heavy sigh, Prowl opened his optics and began to work.

As Smokescreen had said, no single mission could be said to be truly routine. While the soldiers might think as much, a tactician must consider all possibilities. No plan survives first contact with the enemy, but one could at least consider the most likely ways such contact would divert to.

The work was as enjoyable as Prowl always found it, though a shivering anxiety sat deep in his chest and kept him from forgetting. (Forgetting what happened the last time he led a mission with Jazz.)

The profiles of the mecha he was to work with were… interesting. The first four mecha were unremarkable as far as records go, with several successful missions between them and one or two reports of misconduct.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker… they were forged mecha, and twins at that; one spark that split into two while a blacksmith forged them. They had a long record of successful missions, both on the frontline and with Ops, when Stormset felt the need to call for them. They had an equally long record of misconduct and insubordination. They were fiercely loyal to the Autobot cause, and exceptional fighters. Prowl had no doubt as to why they were included in the mission: insurance, should Jazz betray them for the Decepticons.

It was sensible. Logical. Prowl would have done the same thing. (Of course, of course, why wouldn't he?)

The twins were exceptional mecha. They were also exceptionally prone to acting before thinking, jumping the gun, and disobeying orders in the heat of battle. Besides that, Prowl was almost certain they were among the mecha infuriated by the results of Jazz’s first patrol little over a month ago.

Prowl formulated the project in such a way that the Twins were a reasonable distance away from Jazz, for the most part. Close, but not too close. Jazz could easily defend himself, but there was no knowing what the Twins would do.

With a quiet sigh, Prowl settled that processor thread and turned his attention back to the others.

 

Somehow Jazz had gotten his servos on some soft-metal and a knife, and was in the process of whittling the block of soft-metal down into some shape.

“Where'd you get the knife?” Prowl asked, sinking down on the rec. room couch next to Jazz. About them, mecha looked on warily, glancing over every few moments while they carried their own conversations.

“Found it,” Jazz replied with a wide grin. Prowl frowned disapprovingly, and Jazz laughed. “Don't look at me like that love.” With the knife, he gestured to one corner of the room. “‘Raj over there gave it to me when I asked nicely. Now he's watchin’ me like a hawk in case I make any wrong moves.”

Prowl glanced over at the corner to see Mirage from SpecialOps. The blue and white mech sat in an armchair, slightly slouched but still exuding nobility. His piercing blue optics met Prowl’s, and the spy nodded shortly.

Turning back to face Jazz, Prowl said, “What are you trying to carve?”

Jazz lifted the soft-metal up to eye level. “Dunno, actually.” With a tilt of his helm, Jazz looked past the block to Prowl. “Should I try carvin’ an image of you?”

Prowl huffed, his lips pursing with amusement. “I can’t imagine I would make for a good model.”

“Well, I ain’t that good, love, so you might be the better choice.” Jazz lowered the block and considered the black and white mech. “I mean, y’got the chevron and the doorwings and the bumper, makes for a few distinctive features that wouldn't be _too_ hard to replicate.”

“Hm. Shall I pose? Or is my presence enough.” Prowl smiled faintly. (He always smiled for Jazz. It was too telling, made it too obvious.)

Jazz slouched back against the arm of the couch, his attention on his servos while his frame turned towards Prowl. “Jus’ sit there and look pretty, love.” He glanced up and grinned. “Can’t be that hard, you’re a natural at it.”

For the first time in… millennia Prowl felt a faint flush on his cheeks. “Very well,” he managed after a long moment. Pulling a datapad from subspace, Prowl plugged his hardline into the device and settled in to continue the work he’d not finished during his shift.

It was easy to lose track of time like this. It felt like the world had come down to this little bubble composed of him and Jazz, sitting on a couch in comfortable silence.

Letting out an easy sigh, Prowl allowed himself a small, content smile.

“Y’know, I heard he’s on the fast track for commander.” The words drifted through the rec. room from somewhere nearby. Prowl didn’t register them consciously.

“Yeah? How many spikes you think he sucked to get where he is?” replied another voice. “Mech’s a tac, they ain’t worth slag. None of ‘em are brave enough to get down and dirty on the battlefield.”

“Heh, mech’s gettin’ down and dirty somewhere, alright.”

A new voice interjected. “Wait, who’re we talking about?”

A scoff. “The Decepticon’s slut, o’ course.”

The smile vanished from Prowl’s face. His digits tightened about his datapad, and somewhere amongst Prowl’s processor threads, a brief blitz of meaningless numbers flared before being wiped away.

“Mech’s a real fragger. Y’know I heard that he got caught up with the ‘Con at his last post, got his CO killed.”

“I haven’t heard anything like that, but y’know what I did hear? Our little tac’s been seen comin’ outta the ‘Con’s room, and vice versa. Probably keepin’ on that arrangement that got the ‘Con to defect in the first place, amiright?”

“If the ‘Con defected for that, I can see why. Wouldn’t mind tappin’ on that aft myself.”

“Gonna need a gag, Primus knows the glitch can talk.”

Prowl stared at his datapad unseeingly. This sort of talk was expected. Natural. Of course they would come to these conclusions. They always did. ( _There’s the boss man’s lieutenant, mech’s a right fragger but easy on the optics. Maybe if you ask the boss nicely he’ll let you try ‘im out._ )

A low, near subvocal growl reached Prowl’s audials, vibrating across his doorwings and prompting a small shiver. Looking up, Prowl saw Jazz. The silver mech stared over the back of the couch, gaze piercing and lips drawn back in a fang-filled sneer. He’d clenched one hand about the hilt of his knife, even as he’d released the soft-metal in favour of a balled fist.

Prowl grasped for straws to keep Jazz from enacting his anger. “Jazz,” he said quickly, and hopefully not too loudly. That blazing blue gaze snapped to Prowl, the sneer fading slightly. Prowl took the moment to ask, “Are you done with your carving yet?”

Jazz frowned, looking down at the discarded soft-metal in his lap. Setting the knife down, Jazz lifted the carved metal up for Prowl to take. Reaching out, Prowl carefully held the whittled-down soft-metal.

It was surprising how Prowl could recognize the figure as himself– or at least, a mech of the same frame type. Blocky arms lay at the sides of a simple frame with a large bumper and lifted doorwings. The legs were unfinished, half-shaped, but the helm was carved with surprising delicacy. The face was smooth and featureless, but the helm was given enough detail to show the audials and chevron.

“It’s well done,” Prowl murmured, turning the figure over in his servos a couple times. He ran a thumb over the blank face.

“Give it a kiss, love, and I’ll keep it on me for luck.” Jazz tilted his helm, smiling wryly.

Smiling faintly, Prowl brought the dull metal figurine to his lips, pressing a kiss to the small carved helm. Holding out the figure to Jazz, Prowl said, “There. For luck.”

Jazz took the unfinished figure back, looking over it with a slight smile. “Thanks, love.” He took up the knife and bent over the soft-metal, apparently intent on continuing.

Then the voices reached Prowl’s audials, bursting open the bubble that had formed about himself and Jazz.

“I wanna go over there and teach that tac how a real Autobot ‘faces.”

Prowl grimaced, and his doorwings tucked downwards. Jazz’s loud, rolling growl pulled the doorwinger from his helm, and Prowl’s optics widened upon seeing the silver mech rise from the couch, figurine discarded on the cushions.

“Jazz!” Prowl hissed urgently, reaching out fruitlessly to stop Jazz from circling the couch at a predatory pace. Throwing his datapad and the figurine into subspace, Prowl got quickly to his pedes.

Within the space of a few moments, Jazz had crossed the short distance to the group’s table. The entire rec. room looked up to watch, and from the corner of his optic Prowl saw Mirage making his way over.

“Jazz, please–“ Prowl hurried to catch up to Jazz, unsure of what exactly he was asking for. He reached out, grabbed Jazz’s arm, only for the silver mech to shake him off roughly.

The mecha at the table had all looked up, a few surprised and a couple looking dangerously sure of themselves. Jazz was still holding the knife, Prowl realized, and he brandished it casually as he waved his servo, stance casual and gaze hard.

“Hey, mechs, thought I heard y’all talkin’ ‘bout me,” Jazz said in a tone that managed to be both friendly and dangerous.

Prowl halted where he stood, his spark clenching in his chest. (Why was he so weak? Why did he not simply report them for slander? He could face down Decepticons and lead battles, why couldn't he just-)

“Wasn't really talkin’ about you, ‘Con,” replied one mech in the group, a burgundy grounder. It was incredible, really, that they even had the courage to speak to a highly dangerous ex-Decepticon with such brashness. Or perhaps it was less courage and more stupidity and arrogance. What could one mech do in a base full of Autobots, after all?

“Really? What were you talkin’ ‘bout, then?” Jazz tilted his helm, tapping the blade of his knife idly against his palm.

It was one of the bolder mecha who replied. “We were actually wonderin’ if we could borrow your little tac.” He tilted his helm to look around Jazz’s frame at Prowl. “I mean, if he's as good as everyone says he–”

Jazz lunged forward and pulled the mech from his chair with a roar. Everyone leapt to their pedes, but Jazz did nothing to the bot but drag him near.

“You keep sayin’ that slag and you won't have a vocalizer to say it with,” Jazz snarled.

“Jazz, just–”

The burgundy grounder sneered at Prowl. “You stay outta this, slut. Me and your pimp gotta–”

The punch with which Prowl struck the grounder surprised everyone, including Prowl himself. Jazz released the mech at once, and the Autobot fell to the floor with a clang. Prowl stared down at him, flexing his smarting servo.

Jazz laughed, loud and striking in the momentary silence before the rec. room exploded with chatter, each mech turning to the other to discuss what had just happened, while the grounder’s friends stepped forward to pull the dazed mech away.

“What just happened?” Mirage asked coolly, stepping forward into Prowl’s line of sight.

Prowl grasped for an answer, but Jazz beat him to it.

“Mech was talkin’ slag ‘bout our Prowl here. He got what he got.” Jazz grinned wide, turning his gaze on Prowl. “Damn impressive, love.”

Mirage sighed. “I imagine Red Alert would prefer you to have simply reported it.”

“Red prefers a lot of things that he don't get, ‘Raj,” Jazz said sagely.

The blue and white spy shook his helm. “Give me my knife and go back to your room, I think you've done enough today.” He paused, glancing at Prowl and pursing his lips. “I'll vouch for you if the mech tries pressing charges.”

Surprised, Prowl could only manage a grateful nod.

Jazz passed the knife back to Mirage with a sigh. “You got your mini-me, love?” He asked Prowl, turning on his heel to leave the rec. room.

“Yes,” Prowl replied, following Jazz automatically. Prowl twisted his servos together, wincing as his right servo stung beneath the treatment.

“Your hand okay?” Jazz asked.

“Yes.”

Jazz hummed. “And are you okay?”

Prowl blinked, and tilted his helm quizzically. “Hm?”

The silver mech huffed, lips turning in amusement. “Mech was sayin' some right slag things about you, Prowler. I wanna know how you’re holdin’ up under that.”

“Their gossip will move on to something else eventually. I am not unused to being disliked.” Prowl turned his gaze to stare straight ahead. (He didn't want to talk about this.)

“That ain't the answer I was lookin’ for.”

Prowl quickened his pace minutely. “Well it's the one you got.” He was about to come up with some excuse to leave Jazz’s company when he remembered the figure in his subspace. Halting with such suddenness that Jazz nearly ran into him, Prowl retrieved the half-finished soft-metal figure from his subspace.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “I have… work to do. You keep that.”

Jazz smiled as he took the figurine and accepted the half-apology for what it was. “I'll see you later, Prowler.”

Despite his discomfort (physically, emotionally, mentally) Prowl managed a smile in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call me cliche, because it's true. I am not above such tropes as these.  
> Without the writing of this fic I am set adrift. I have nothing to write. I should probably, idk, write my original stories? But that's so much more complicated D: (even though that's the reason I wrote this fic in the first place: practice)  
> Please comment! I need feedback more than ever, I beg of you. Kudos will serve just as well.


	25. Chapter 25

Prowl sighed, scrubbing a servo over his face and blinking past the fog in his optics. His sleep last night had been… restless. Half-remembered dreams pushed at his processor, and the only thing Prowl could truly remember of them was the horrified disgust that filled his throat when he woke.

Forcefully, Prowl shoved those not-quite-memories away, focusing his attention on his work. The project was nearly finished; a few tweaks and checks, and then he would submit it to another tactician for review. The incident report he'd been drafting up concerning the… incident the other day was discarded when Red Alert sent a comm. that informed Prowl that the offending mech (apparently named Rimriot) had dropped the assault charges incited by Prowl’s (according to several eyewitnesses) singularly impressive punch.

Prowl himself had yet to file his harassment report, so he discarded that draft as well. Perhaps another time Prowl would have persisted with it (harassment was behavior unbecoming of an Autobot) but he did not want to put himself any further into the spotlight than he already was.

He spared a moment to wonder why, exactly, Rimriot had dropped the charges. Then a message pinged his comm., and Prowl opened it.

-You’ve been informed that Rimriot has dropped charges?- read the message. The sender’s tag read ‘Mirage’.

Surprise flashed through Prowl’s processor as he replied, -Yes.-

Mirage answered a second later. -Good.-

-Thank you.-

There was no reply, but Prowl hadn’t really expected one. Mirage, Prowl thought as he returned to his work, was a good mech, and likely to be a good friend for Jazz if the Autobots learned to trust him.

It was a nice prospect, and Prowl resolved to watch Mirage a little more closely.

After that, Prowl dragged himself through the last several minutes of his shift, wanting nothing more than the relief of lying in his berth for the next however many hours. At last, the hour flipped over, and Prowl loaded his complete project onto a datapad, handing it over to a beta shift tactician who'd just come in.

There were tasks Prowl had to accomplish before he could finally retreat to his room. Getting energon, for one thing. And finding out where Jazz was, simply for ~~comfort~~ the comfort of his sanity.

Getting energon was easy enough. Prowl drank it quickly, unwilling to linger in the rec. room but also wary of drinking while he walked. So he sat down for less than a minute, downed his energon, and promptly left the weight of all those stares behind.

There were far too many places Jazz could be, but thankfully only a few places where he would be.

It was an hour’s worth of searching before Prowl finally tracked Jazz down.

The base at Iacon was sprawling, containing many levels of basements and almost as many upper floors. Towards the southeast quarter of the base, a tower of sorts jutted from the roof, containing a three-hundred sixty degree, glass-windowed view of the base and the city beyond. Few frequented this so-called observation deck, finding it to be concerningly vulnerable should aerial attack befall Iacon, though the tint of the windows lent privacy to the space.

Prowl had never been here before, but Jazz had mentioned it a few days ago. A lovely view, Jazz had said. (Just like you, he'd added.)

Climbing the spiraling stairs, Prowl stepped onto the floor of the observation deck. It was a fairly small space, containing little more than a few chairs and a couch that someone must have once laboured to haul up the staircase.

Glancing about, Prowl’s attention was caught by the city outside the floor-to-ceiling windows. The sky had begun to darken as the sun descended slowly, casting a burnished glow over the city. The buildings and towers of Iacon rose up, casting a striking silhouette against the sunset sky. It was beautiful.

An ache rose in Prowl’s chest, suddenly, and he let out a shuddering breath.

“What's on your mind, love?”

Prowl turned to see Jazz, leaning against the sturdy glass. Prowl looked at him for a long moment, took in the way that the light of the setting sun bounced off his plating. How Jazz’s silhouette was so much less frightening than _his_. (Golden plating, blue optics, a hard servo on Prowl’s shoulder.)

It took Prowl a long time to gather enough words to reply. He looked back out to the city, large and lovely and not familiar enough. “I miss Praxus,” he confessed. Barely more than a whisper, but it seemed too loud in the quiet of the room.

Jazz approached with steps that Prowl knew to be louder than usual. He halted at Prowl’s side, and the low hum of his voice soothed the shaking of Prowl’s doorwings. “Tell me about it,” Jazz said gently.

Prowl shook his helm. “I don't know how, I– Primus, I only came up to find out what you were doing.”

(What was it about Jazz that made him feel so vulnerable? He hadn't thought of Praxus in years before ~~betrayed yellow optics~~ Carpessa, had pushed down the pain as he did all others. But now it all came welling up in him, an unhealed wound laid bare by Jazz’s careful servos.)

“It is what it is.” Jazz tilted his helm. His visor glowed a deep shade of blue. “What did you love most about Praxus? The people, the buildings, the food?” He trailed off, leaving Prowl to fill the gap.

“The Gardens.” Prowl licked his lips nervously, twisted his digits together. He looked out over the city– it was easier than looking Jazz in the optic. “There was- a place that I found. A little clearing that had been hidden by overgrown crystals. It had a dried up fountain and two benches that were broken. No one else knew about it.” Prowl’s lips twitched upwards for a brief moment. “It was my secret.”

The first secret of his that couldn't be held over his helm, the first secret that was his and his alone.

“You would have loved it, Jazz. When dusk falls and the temperature changes, the crystals would make these sounds as they shifted. Like music. And sometimes when the wind blows right, they resonate. A natural orchestra.” Prowl stared at the pink and orange skyline, but he didn't see it. “Skilled musicians can work the crystals in such a way that they create musical notes, and they just… set them spinning and let the music play out.

“I saw a show, once. Barricade took me. The mech stood on stage and set the crystals in their places and just… _played_. Barricade told me that musicians that skilled were rare, that few Praxians could work the crystals that way.” Prowl smiled faintly. “I tried my hand at it for a few years before giving up. I'm sure you could figure it out, though. You seem like the kind of mech who could make music.”

“What else do you love about Praxus?” Jazz asked. He stood nearer than Prowl remembered, but that didn't matter. Jazz’s warmth came as a comfort in the cold of the room.

“The food is amazing.” Prowl laughed quietly. “It's so diverse, coming from every corner of Cybertron. There was a cafe that Barricade and I would frequent. I could never have imagined there was more to taste than plain lowgrade. My favourite was the cobalt mix. Barricade actually learned to make cobalt soft-candies because I liked them so much. It took him ages, but he perfected the recipe eventually.”

“Sounds wonderful,” Jazz murmured.

Prowl smiled. “It is.” The smile slid from Prowl’s face slowly. “It-it was.” He shook his helm. “Praxus is gone now, there's no point in looking back on it.” He tried to push away the memories, the too happy moments that he would never get back. His spark pulsed with an ache that had lingered ever since his city crumbled.

“Doesn't mean you can’t still love it.” Jazz turned his helm to look out the window, leaving Prowl to sigh in relief without the silver mech’s scrutiny. “Tell me about Barricade.”

Black and white doorwings twitched downwards. “You knew him, didn't you?”

“I knew a Decepticon, disillusioned and bitter like all the rest. Tell me about the Barricade that you knew, the one who mentored you.”

Prowl glanced down at his servo, at where Jazz’s servo laid at the silver mech’s side, close enough for Prowl to reach out and… “Barricade called me, you know.”

The digits of Jazz’s servo curled slightly as he shifted. “When?”

“Before- before the bombs fell. I had gone to get energon for the unit and- and he called me.” Prowl saw his servo clench into a fist. “He knew about what was going to happen. He only called because he'd learned I was there, wanted to say goodbye.” Prowl found his breath hitching slightly. “Not because our city was going to be destroyed. The city we both swore to protect and serve.”

Prowl looked up at Jazz, and the words fell from his mouth before he could stop them. “That's something you would have done, I think. Leave me behind, call just once because you thought I would die, because you regret it, but not enough to try and change anything.”

“Would have done, love?” Jazz repeated, voice soft. His face was nearly expressionless. “You think I won't do it now?”

“...I’m not sure.” Prowl wasn't sure of anything when it came to Jazz. “You said goodbye and left me behind, and all I ever saw of you were scraps of surveillance and a operative’s flash of memory.”

“I hurt you,” Jazz said, quiet and hushed. “Like Barricade did.” Jazz didn't sound surprised, didn't sound as though it were some revelation on his part.

Prowl didn't reply. He couldn't (or wouldn't). He watched his own servo flex and clench into a fist, watched Jazz’s digits twitch slightly. ( ~~He wanted to hold Jazz’s hand~~.)

“I'm sorry, Prowler.”

“I know.”

Jazz’s servo pulled away, and Prowl lamented the loss silently. “I actually-” Jazz began. “I– well, here.”

From his subspace, Jazz brought out the soft-metal figurine he'd been carving the other day. It was complete, simple yet somehow detailed. He turned it over, and in the same moment, Prowl’s comm. pinged with an encrypted message.

Jazz worked a claw into a nearly invisible seam at the bottom of one of the figurine’s pedes, and pulled out the cover to reveal a small hollow, containing a blinking tracker. Prowl opened the message and found it to be a locator frequency. He looked up to meet Jazz’s gaze

“I'll keep this little Prowler on me for luck,” Jazz said, his lips turned up into a faint smile. “And so you can always find me.” His smile became slightly wry. “I thought it wasn't too fair that I was the only one between us who had a tracker on the other.”

Prowl pulled up the frequency, spared a moment to give it the label of A.J. And there, pulsing gently in the scape of his processor, were the coordinates of the figurine in Jazz’s servo.

Some strange, inexplicable wave of relief washed over Prowl. Because he knew that Jazz would always make an effort to keep the figurine close. Keep it close so that Prowl would find him. (Wouldn't lose him.)

“Thank you,” Prowl whispered.

“Anything for you, Prowler.” Jazz pressed the cover back into the figurine’s pede, the seam so close that Prowl could hardly see it. Jazz turned the figurine over, touched the tiny, chevroned helm. The air was still with his hesitation. “You were right. When you said I was the kinda mech who could make music.”

Prowl watched Jazz’s face, even as the other mech watched the little Praxian in his servos.

“There was a time in my life where I wanted to be a musician. I was good at it too. Got a couple record deals, even made the charts once.” Jazz rubbed one carved doorwing between thumb and forefinger.

“Why didn't you stay a musician?”

Jazz laughed ruefully. “Got in with the wrong crowd, love. Found myself with debts and no money ‘n I was lookin’ for a way out when I saw a bounty hunter draggin’ his bounty in for reward. And I thought, damn, I could do that.” He looked up from the figurine to Prowl. “So I did. An’ I decided that I really liked it, liked the rush that performin’ couldn't give. I fell down that rabbit hole and now,” he spread his servos, “here I am.”

“You've lived a tumultuous life,” was all Prowl could think to say.

“Heh, haven't we all?”

Silence fell for a moment before Prowl said, “The first time I heard music, one of the technicians had brought a radio. He was singing along with it while he worked, putting the monitor nodes on my frame and setting up the equipment. I was young, still. Unsure of what was happening to me. I tried singing along as well.” Prowl’s wings twitched. “The guard inflicted a mid-level shock on me, and said that I was not permitted to speak. That was one of my first lessons.”

Jazz didn't say anything, but the stance of his frame spoke of sympathy. It was strange to see.

“I never forgot the song, though. I couldn't find it when- when I- when they let me go. I just have the memories, but I never entirely forgot it.”

“Do you remember how it went? Maybe I know it.”

Prowl reached back into his memories, to that frayed memory file that he'd once pored over endlessly in the silence of his cold, dim room. Remembering the ways that sounds could make something other than hard words and it was beautiful.

It was a struggle, but at last, Prowl pulled a few threads of a tune, a scrap of a verse from his memory. He sang it wordlessly, adding what words he could recall.

“...And I can't find what I'm seeking, but I–” Prowl paused, the tune lost to him for a moment.

“But I know that I am sinking, on a ship that's full of words I can't escape from.” Jazz’s singing voice was beautiful, clean and clear in a way that his speaking voice wasn't. He smiled faintly as he continued with, “And I can’t hear what I'm speaking, what this voice of mine is screaming, but I'll sing and hope that someone else will see me.”

“Yes, yes that's it.” Prowl had thought that perhaps he had maybe dreamed it. It was such an old memory. Even before he'd left that place he'd wondered if he'd only imagined that music, that indication of a universe beyond the cold and sterilized world Prowl knew.

“I liked that song too, when it came out. Had a good tune and a relatable story.”

Prowl hesitated a moment. “Will you sing it for me?” He hid behind a wry smile. “We have to make sure your skills haven't decayed over the centuries.”

“Of course, Prowler.” Jazz smiled brightly, and began to sing. Closing his optics, Prowl let the music (the sound of Jazz’s voice) wash over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a drivers test today, wish me luck! I don't have anything to say really, except thank you for reading and please drop a comment informing me if you liked it, what you think may happen next, or even what you think I did wrong.  
> Next update next week, where the Prowl is working on mission begins.  
> Edit: just realized it is in fact Thursday and I just got into the habit of posting a new chapter before I left for driving school. Next chapter should be up on Friday as usual


	26. Chapter 26

The glow of the afternoon sun cast color on the silver of Jazz’s frame. The mech was sprawled out along the length of the couch on the observation deck, his pedes sticking out over the armrest. Prowl had curled into an over-stuffed, threadbare armchair with a datapad in hand, determined to finish his project. He was distracted, however, by the image Jazz made, relaxed and dozing (handsome and beautiful).

With a sigh, Prowl turned back to his datapad.

“Why Carpessa?”

At Jazz’s words, Prowl’s energon turned to ice and his spark skipped a beat. He looked up sharply to meet Jazz’s visor, and the silver mech was quick to speak before Prowl.

“You know your secrets are safe with me, Prowler.”

(Prowl didn't doubt it. How could he?)

Prowl let the processing of his project fade into the background– it was almost done, a few minutes with this processing method would do no harm. Shifting, Prowl turning in the chair to look at Jazz, but the mech had laced his digits behind his head and was staring at the ceiling.

Relieved not to have the other’s gaze on him, Prowl considered his answer for a few moments before saying, “I asked him to make the bomb because I was desperate. The war stands at a near stalemate, and a drastic act is required to break that. I thought such a bomb would be that drastic act.” Prowl ran one digit down a seam on his datapad.

Taking a breath, Prowl continued. “Carpessa was a city that lay trapped between the Autobots and the Decepticons. Straddling a line. They had to choose a side eventually and I thought– well, I thought that I would help that along.” His spark squeezed with guilt. “It seemed so clear at the time; an inevitable conclusion. And then it happened and I opened my eyes.

“It looked so much like Praxus.”

(And didn't that make him just like his mentor? Only regretful because the tragedy reminded him of his own city, not because of the tragedy itself. Only guilty because he saw in their faces the agony of his own people.)

“Do you regret it?” Jazz asked.

Prowl laughed, soft and bitter. “That's the thing. I don't know. I regret what I did to the Carpessans, that so many died. But… but I don't know whether or not I regret the end results, the blow to the Decepticons and the influx of troops for the Autobots.” He stared down at his servos, painted white. “What does that make me?”

“Someone who did the wrong thing for a reason he thought was right.”

“That doesn't absolve me.”

“Of course it doesn't, love.” Jazz let out a sigh. “I ain't Autobot enough to give you any nice words t’make you feel better ‘bout what ya did. But…” Plating brushed against coarse cloth as Jazz sat up and moved to the end of the couch nearest Prowl. He held out a servo, and Prowl looked at it quizzically.

“Come on, love, take my hand. Let's make a promise.” Jazz smiled faintly.

Pursing his lips, Prowl reaches out and laid his servo in Jazz’s. Worn, silver digits curled over Prowl’s as Jazz leaned closer.

“I promise you,” Jazz said solemnly, “if I see you goin’ down a path you don't wanna walk, I'll do my best to stop you.”

The smile that turned Prowl’s lips was weak but sincere. “And I promise the same.”

Jazz smiled back, and brought Prowl’s servo up. Smooth lips pressed against Prowl’s knuckles, less a kiss and more a moment of contact that scorched Prowl’s plating. “We gotta hold each other accountable, Prowler. It's hard to walk the road we’re on alone.”

Prowl considered Jazz’s face, the glow of his visor and the feeling of his lips on Prowl’s plating. “What road is that?” Prowl asked.

“The road to change. To bein’ better than we are now. Bein’ _good_.”

“I don't think we can be good.” After all Prowl had done (what he'd done to Carpessa, what he'd done under- what he'd done in the Security Services) how could he possibly be good?

Jazz smiled reassuringly. “Then tryin’s gonna have to be enough. We’re gonna walk this road together, as far as it takes us. I promise you that.” He laughed suddenly, clear and bright. “Look at me, talkin’ soft. Jus’ goes to show that even a merc-turned-‘Con can change his ways.” He kissed Prowl’s digits softly (reverently). “Mus’ be your influence, Prowler.”

Prowl felt heat rise to his cheeks, and pulled his hand back to himself. Jazz let it go without comment, leaning back against the cushions of the couch.

Staring out the windows, out across the city of Iacon, Prowl said softly, “I wish I cared less.”

“So do I, love.”

(Too close, too close, hissed that fearful voice in Prowl’s mind.)

 

The mecha of the unit were almost exactly as Prowl had predicted. Loopgain was a tad headstrong, but even in the few moments they'd interacted directly, Prowl had noted the promise of leadership in the green mech. Strikedown was a neutral presence, and while Rhumb seemed discontent, he was able to follow orders.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker… well, they had yet to do anything more than sneer, but Prowl had to be prepared for when they did start causing trouble.

The shuttle would take them close enough to the outpost that they wouldn't have to drive for a day and a half, but that still left several hours to go on their wheels. Prowl stepped into the shuttle and walked over to the far corner, glancing over his shoulder to ensure that his unit was following.

Each mech took a seat, the twins sitting down right next to each other. Then Jazz stepped onboard, striding down the small aisle between them all and ignoring the looks they all gave him.

Jazz sat down beside Prowl, strapping himself in. Casting a grin at Prowl, Jazz said, “Come here often, love?”

Rolling his optics, Prowl tapped the wall of the shuttle. “We’re good to go,” he said to the shuttle-former. The onramp closed, and with a slight shudder, the shuttle lifted off the ground.

Sighing heavily, Prowl sagged somewhat in his seat and let his helm fall back against the wall. Light chatter sprang up between the other mecha in the unit, idle words that Prowl paid little attention to.

“Y’tired, Prowler?” Jazz asked, his voice quiet and his words meant only for Prowl.

Prowl’s recharge the night before had not been disturbed by any half-remembered nightmares, but he still felt tired. He let his optics close, let out another heavy sigh, and nodded. Jazz hummed, the low sound soothing to Prowl’s weary processor.

“Go ahead and take a nap, I'll make sure no one kills you.”

Prowl scoffed quietly, but he didn't open his optics. “Shouldn't I be the one making that affirmation?”

Jazz chuckled. “I'll make sure no one kills me too.”

With Jazz’s frame warm beside him, and the low hum of chatter, Prowl found himself slipping into a shallow recharge more easily than he would have expected.

It was rare that Prowl, while resting as he was, would go so deep into recharge that he would dream. It seemed he was more weary than he'd thought, however, because colors and images flicked through his mind like memories.

It was hard to keep track of the blurry half-dream. A hundred different things were happening, and only one thing occurring in the same moment. Prowl drove on a dark road one moment and stepped through a lit doorway the next. He would be all alone, and then surrounded by presences whose intentions he couldn't quite parse. When at last the dream settled into some semblance of sanity, Prowl found himself to be standing, or perhaps merely floating, in a large, familiar room.

The edges of his vision were blurred, the colors saturated and the light cast through the floor to ceiling window glared brightly. And there it was, _his_ silhouette, striking as always before the window looking out over Kaon.

Prowl took a step forward on pedes that may or may not exist, and spoke with a voice he couldn't really hear, the words coming to his own audials as though from far away. “You summoned me, sir?”

“I did.” The great mech did not turn, but looked out the window. “How goes the search for the insurgent cell?”

“We are making progress, sir. I have estimated that we will be able to discover their base of operations in a week or so.”

“Make it four days.”

Prowl balked. “Four days? But sir, if we move any faster it's likely the cell will discover our efforts, and all our gathered intel will be useless once they–”

“Four days, Lieutenant. Don't make me repeat myself again.” And there was that danger, lingering always beneath his voice.

Usually, Prowl would obey. Usually, he knew when to pick his battles, especially against this particular foe. But he'd put countless hours into this operation, had worked many long nights in order to get the intel that they needed. Had invested far more energy and time than his superior in ensuring that this operation would go smoothly.

His anger was one of his worst traits, Prowl knew.

“Sir,” Prowl said stiffly (and boldly, too boldly). “I'm afraid that I cannot conclude this operation within the timeframe you've proposed.”

He turned, then. Great and imposing, a black shape against the brightness of the window. Prowl felt terror, thick and hot in his throat.

Prowl wondered if he would be made to go to his punishment, or if it would come to him.

“Come here, Prowl,” he said in a terrible voice.

Prowl jerked from his recharge, his whole frame tense. He sucked in a sharp breath, and his plating burned with the not-quite-sensations of his dream-memory.

Prowl felt the stares of the other mecha boring into his helm, felt them judging him. The urge to duck his helm, to hide himself, was so strong Prowl almost choked on it.

“Shuttle’s settin’ down, Prowler.” Jazz murmured. He had leaned forward, turned his shoulders enough to hide Prowl from the eyes of the others.

Sighing and shaking his helm to dispel the last of his unsettled recharge, Prowl waited for the bump that signaled that the shuttle had landed. When it came, Prowl unbuckled himself and stood, walking down the aisle to the descending onramp while the rest of the unit shook off the fatigue from their limbs.

“Does everyone recall the formations?” Prowl asked. A wave of nodding helms was the response. Prowl nodded firmly. “Alright, let’s go.”

Judging by the dark looks the twins had cast Jazz prior to transforming, the formation Prowl had made was indeed somewhat necessary. Once the unit set out, comm. chatter buzzed like an EM field, but Prowl made no move to stop them as of yet. There were kilometers still until they were close enough to the Decepticon outpost that radio silence would be necessary.

::How you feelin’ about this, love?:: Jazz asked.

::Why do you ask?::

A staticky scoff. ::I remember the last mission we went on as well as you do, Prowl. Last an’ only mission, until now. I know you're drawin’ parallels.::

::...And if I am?::

::Things ain't gonna go the way they did then. I promise.::

::I’ll hold you to that.::

::Heh, okay, Prowler.::

 

Prowl transformed, crouching low below the edge of the hill. The sounds of the units’ transformations reached him, resoundingly loud in the quiet of the night. Prowl didn't worry about it.

Flaring his doorwings, Prowl scanned the area. Nothing unexpected; a few animal sparks, the signals of his unit, muted and half-hidden, and the Decepticons in the outpost.

Prowl frowned slightly. There was something off that he couldn't quite–

“Alrighty, Prowler, what’s the plan?” Jazz crouched down at Prowl’s side.

“You know the plan, I gave you all a briefing.”

“Of course I know the plan, I was just makin’ sure _you_ knew the plan.”

Prowl turned an unimpressed glare on Jazz, who grinned in reply. Behind them came the rustle and scrape of plating as the rest of the unit gathered near.

“We ready, boss?” Rhumb asked, leaning forward enough to look over the crest of the hill.

“Almost.” Prowl looked over to Sideswipe and Sunstreaker, standing as close together as ever. Sunstreaker wore a habitual scowl, but the wary glare Sideswipe turned on Jazz was more enlightening as to their current attitude.

Turning his attention back to the low-lying buildings clustered together at the base of the hill, Prowl said, “Alright, let's go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all, I want at least one person to guess who this unnamed figure in Prowl's past is (if I haven't confirmed it to someone already in a past comment)  
> Second of all, I want to know what you guys think will happen next. It's always good to know what my readers are thinking :)  
> Happy slightly late Saint Nicholas Day, my friends!


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for attempted rape/non-con and implied past sexual abuse. If you are sensitive or triggered by this, please inform me in a comment and I'll set up a chapter summary in the end notes.

The first thing that went wrong was not Prowl’s fault. Whose fault it was could be debated among the bureaucracy in base, but Prowl knew that it was not his own fault. His plans had been tailored to the supposedly reliable intel that had reported less than twenty mecha in the small outpost.

Onsite evidence reported the truth to be nearer to thirty-five.

Any semblance of a plan was instantly smashed to pieces, because not only were there more mecha than expected, those mecha had known they were coming. The off-ness Prowl had felt on the hill was the brush of perimeter sensors’ signals against his own sensors.

Prowl was going to _kill_ Stormset if he ever got out of this.

So that was the first thing that went wrong. Prowl shouted orders over the comm, but Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had already bounced off to get themselves killed, and there were five mecha for every bot in his squad, and Prowl was beginning to feel a too-familiar prickling in his chest.

By the time Rhumb went down with a hole in his face, the Autobot squad had been effectively overwhelmed. Faced with the threat of death on himself and his mecha, Prowl weighed the pros and cons, and dropped his rifle. Strikedown and Loopgain followed suit, and Prowl forced himself not to resist as they were marched into holding cells.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker were, thankfully, not dead. Sideswipe was damaged, though, and badly. The patching Sunstreaker was in the process of applying would keep the red warrior alive, but judging by the furious desperation on Sunstreaker’s face, and the fact that he'd allowed them to be taken prisoner, Sideswipe’s wounds were serious.

A hard shove to center of Prowl’s back sent him stumbling into his cell, an energy barrier springing up moments later. Glancing about, Prowl noted that all but the back wall were likewise energy barriers, allowing him to see that Sideswipe and Sunstreaker shared a cell beside Prowl’s, while Strikedown and Loopgain shared another just beyond.

It was only in that moment that Prowl realized something.

“Jazz,” Prowl hissed, and his spark skipped a beat, and then another. Stepping over to the barrier separating him from Sunstreaker and his brother, Prowl touched the fizzling wall. It hurt, but only a little, and the buzz caught Sunstreaker’s attention.

For a moment, Prowl was taken aback by the baleful fury in Sunstreaker’s gaze, but he gathered himself enough to say, “Jazz, where is he?”

Sunstreaker’s face contorted with something between confusion and anger. “Why the frag would I care where that slagsucker is,” he spat.

What could Prowl say to that? His spark writhed in his fear and panic, and Prowl gasped as the prickling in his chest began to bloom into an aching pain. He stepped back from the barrier, falling back against the wall, ignoring the pain of his doorwings as he scraped down to sit on the ground.

“What's Sideswipe’s situation?” Prowl asked in an attempt to distract both himself and Sunstreaker.

The golden warrior paused. “He needs a proper medic.”

Prowl rubbed his chestplates in small circles in an attempt to sooth the slowly increasing ache on his spark. “He’ll get one.”

“And how the frag’s that gonna happen? We’re in Decepticon holding cells, if you haven't fragging noticed.” Sunstreaker’s words were full of anger and laced with fear. Prowl didn't need to look at him to know that the fear was for his brother.

“Jazz will get us out.” The moment Prowl said those words, he doubted them.

_“They're dead, Prowl. Escapin’ with two mechs is easier than with six.”_

_“Tell me you didn't kill them.”_

_“Alright then, I didn't.”_

“Like slag that fraggin’ ‘Con’s gonna come back and get us out. Slagger’s gone and run back to his faction.” Metal struck metal as Sunstreaker drove a fist against the ground, or perhaps the wall.

Silence fell, and Prowl had only his thoughts to distract him from the growing pain in his sparkchamber. He let his helm fall back against the wall, and sucked in a few quick breaths. His processor spun, trying to form projections of what would happen, what Jazz would do, if he were even still alive.

He had to be alive. There was no way Jazz could be defeated by mere frontliners and troopers. Prowl held that truth close, trying to ease the knot in his tanks.

A grunt escaped Prowl’s lips as the pain in his spark pulsed, and he let himself fall onto his side, curling into a ball as best he could.

“Sir?” Sunstreaker’s voice sounded distant. Prowl spared a moment to be surprised at the confused concern in the warrior’s voice.

Prowl gasped, sucked in a breath and let it out heavily, did it again, clasped his shoulders tightly and gritted his teeth. A tight groan escaped Prowl’s lips, and he wished he were less compromised; it had always hurt this much, but he'd usually managed to suppress the outward signs when in public. Not now. He had dents in his plating and a scorch mark on his thigh and Jazz _wasn't here._

The ache grew and grew, pulsing into a full blown pain that seemed to tear his spark from its chamber. Prowl heard himself make some sort of anguished sound, but it was quiet, or at least he perceived it to be so.

“What the actual slag is going on in there?”

The pain struck its crest and began to fade. Prowl went limp, relief flooding his frame.

“Hey, Autobot, answer me.”

Prowl opened his optics and forced himself into an upright position. He looked to the entrance of his cell, and found two Decepticons standing there– large grounders of some sort, probably trucks, one green and one grey. They peered quizzically at Prowl through the barrier.

Then green mech’s gaze flickered aside, and he let out a low whistle. “Oh, slag, why didn't the boys say we got a Praxian?”

“‘Cause it doesn't matter? Who cares what city he's from, they're all Autobots.”

The green Decepticon cast his companion a derisive look. “The slag it doesn't matter, that ‘Bot in there is a rare breed!” His optics fell on Prowl again. “And a pretty one at that.”

Prowl tucked his doorwings and hunched his shoulders, optics widening. The grey mech looked at him as though under a new light, and he nodded slowly.

“Yeah…” Red optics raked over Prowl’s frame, brightening intently. “Looks damn pretty…”

Sunstreaker rose to his pedes. His engine gave a low, menacing growl. “Don't go getting any ideas, ‘Con.” He bared his teeth in a snarl that looked rather like Jazz’s.

The green Decepticon turned a sneer on the golden warrior. “What, you gonna try an’ stop me?” His gaze flickered to Prowl. “Don't look like he’s got any objections.”

Prowl jerked, his wings twitching. He shook his helm, hauling himself to his pedes and standing as tall as he could.

The green mech laughed. “There's that fight! Thought I might have to work with a limp little ‘Bot.” And then he turned to his companion. “Open the cell, Crack, I wanna try ‘im out.”

The other Decepticon frowned. “Ain't a good idea, mech, Autobots are tricky.”

“Then keep a blaster on him. C’mon, you can go next.”

Wartime brings such things, Prowl knew. When mechs become desperate, their lust having no outlet but battle and interface, one can either find a partner amongst one’s fellows, or elsewhere. The Decepticons’ reputation was rife with such acts, because of course it was. (The Autobots were the same, in some places. Only respect for the Prime and a brighter reputation kept it from being more rampant.)

Prowl had never anticipated this, though. That his Praxian frame would become like a rare commodity. Somehow he'd never seen it coming, never thought that he would ever have to do this. (Except he didn't have to do this. But what was the point in fighting? It never got him anywhere. The end result was always the same.)

In the midst of his whirlwind thoughts, Prowl noted that the grey mech had opened the barrier and trained a blaster on him, while the green Decepticon stepped inside.

“Back the frag down or I'll tear you to pieces.” Sunstreaker snarled, his fists braced against the fizzling energy barrier separating his cell from Prowl’s.

The green Decepticon only laughed. “Cool your engines, Autobot. Just sit back and enjoy the show.”

Prowl couldn't move. He felt frozen in place, watching his fate draw nearer, inescapable. For a moment (just a moment) the green Decepticon was replaced by the image of a great mech, tall and broad, gold and red. The sight had Prowl’s spark beating quickly, too quickly.

“You're pretty damn quiet, Praxian,” said the Decepticon. He had stepped closer, closer, too close. A large servo darted out, and Prowl found himself pressed back against the wall, a heavy frame looming over him.

It was only when the Decepticon pressed a knee between Prowl’s thighs that Prowl came back to himself. He gasped, and jolted, and tried to kick the grounder. But the Decepticon only laid his weight on Prowl’s frame, grabbing Prowl’s wrists and pinning them above his helm in a position that was so painfully vulnerable.

“Finally, some fight. I was startin’ to get disappointed.”

_Disappointed_. The word rattled in Prowl’s helm like a loose blaster shot, knocking memories from their places and bricks from their walls. Prowl’s breath came quick, little huffs of air wheezing from his vents as he stared up at a face he couldn't truly see.

“I'm disappointed in you, Lieutenant,” said one memory. “You’ve disappointed me greatly, Lieutenant,” said another. “I'm _very_ disappointed by your conduct, Lieutenant.”

Prowl shook his helm, or tried to. He couldn't move. Wouldn't move. (Never, ever move when he has you, Prowl knew this. Never fight back, it only makes him angry. Never protest, it only invites punishment.)

“Come here, Prowl,” said a memory, and Prowl went. He stood still beneath the greater mech’s touch as it trailed down his chest, brushed against his doorwings.

The green Decepticon bent his helm and pressed his lips to Prowl’s, forcing himself in and devouring. Prowl did not react for a moment, and then he remembered himself, and kissed back. ( _He_ hated inaction as much as he hated resistance.)

The Deception laughed, low and condescending. “Look at this, Autobot,” he said, breaking away to leer at Sunstreaker. “This little Praxian knows what to do.”

Prowl turned his helm and caught Sunstreaker’s gaze. The tall warrior stared back at him, and Prowl _knew_. Knew that Sunstreaker was aware of the darkness that lay in Prowl’s past. Why he kissed back and didn't resist, why his valve was beginning to lubricate in preparation.

“What's going on here?”

Everything froze. Prowl’s spark stopped, the Decepticon went still. Even the buzzing of the energy barriers seemed to pause for a moment.

Then the Decepticon turned, and said, “Who the frag are you?”

“Agent Jazz, SpecOps Alpha.”

Prowl could see nothing beyond the Decepticon’s broad shoulders, but to the side he could see Sunstreaker, whose face was contorted with rage. 

“Jazz?” The frame of the green mech stiffened somewhat. Then he laughed, and the sound rattled through Prowl’s frame. It was a fake laugh. “Prove it.”

Someone –it sounded like the grey Decepticon– let out a cry of pain, and the green truck-former took a hurried step back. Prowl scraped down the wall to the ground as the Decepticon released him and stepped aside.

It was Jazz. His visor shone red, reflecting off the planes of his face. He looked dangerous, more dangerous than Prowl had seen him be for a long time. He held a knife, dripping with fresh energon. On the ground lay the grey mech, a stab wound in his thigh and a grimace on his face.

“Do you need me to prove it again?” Jazz asked, low and growling. The green Decepticon shook his helm. “Good. Now, I'll ask again, what's goin’ on.”

“Jus’ testin’ out the Praxian. Word is they're good for a frag, more now that there are less of ‘em.” The mech turned a leer on Prowl, slumped against the wall.

Prowl looked up at him, then at Jazz. Somehow, the sight of his friend did not dissuade the fearful beating of Prowl’s spark.

“Praxian, huh?” Jazz stepped forward into the cell. A flick of his wrist had the green mech stepping aside, and Jazz crouched down before Prowl. A silver claw reached out and tipped Prowl’s chin up.

Prowl stared into Jazz’s visor, trying to see. See _something_.

Was this it? Had Jazz’s defection been a ruse, all to draw them both here, to this moment. Prowl at the mercy of Jazz, with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. Picked apart and figured out and now, at last unneeded.

But what about those moments? His promise? Jazz had _promised_!

Before Prowl knew it, those words escaped his lips, a barely-there whisper. “You promised.”

But Jazz did not seem to hear him. “This one’s mine, now,” he said firmly.

The other Decepticon made an indignant sound, and straightened. “Like slag! I saw him first!”

“And you saw what I did to your friend, who looks like he might start bleeding out without medical attention.” Jazz cocked his head to the grey Decepticon, who did indeed look rather bad off. Prowl felt no sympathy– felt barely anything at all, really.

Jazz spoke before the other. “Where's your room?”

The green mech looked taken aback. “It's Γ-08, why do you–”

“It's my room now. Come on, you lovely thing.” A servo wrapped about Prowl’s arm and pulled him to his pedes. Jazz’s hold was firm but not tight. Prowl considered fighting, but found he would not. What was the point? He could never win a fight against Jazz, certainly not while compromised.

(Never, ever, _ever_ fight back.)

Jazz had begun to pull Prowl away when Sunstreaker at last spoke up.

“I fraggin’ knew it, you slagger!” The golden warrior slammed his fists against the energy barrier.

Jazz spared Sunstreaker a brief glance before turning away. “Don't hurt the others,” he called to the green Decepticon. “I like my treats sweet, and they tend to sour once you hurt their comrades.”

“I-wha-yes, sir.”

Prowl had no choice. He followed Jazz.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this chapter when I was considering disturbing and still unanswered questions about my poorly-remembered childhood. I regret leaving this chapter on such a shitty ending, but rest assured that Jazz has not betrayed Prowl in the least– he's just done what he thought he had to do to get Prowl to safety. The next chapter is in his POV, the second and last Jazz POV chapter of this fic.  
> Again, I'm sorry for leaving this chapter on such a bad note.


	28. Chapter 28

Jazz had never felt as much like slag as he did now, pulling a pliant Prowl behind him down the hall to some Decepticon’s room for the supposed purpose of interfacing with the Praxian against his will.

The Decepticon’s doorcode was ridiculously easy to hack. Jazz had the door open within seconds, and a gentle nudge had Prowl stepping in before Jazz followed behind. Closing the door, Jazz turned to take in the room.

It was unremarkable. A berth with rumpled covers lay in one corner, and a desk with nicknacks, two guns, and a knife scattered across its surface lay in the other corner.

Prowl’s steps were nearly silent as he walked the short distance to the berth and sat down, his knees pressed together and his doorwings tucked low. He looked up and met Jazz’s gaze, and Jazz’s spark twisted in his chest at the sight of the fear in Prowl’s optics, the doubt, the quiet question.

The step Jazz took caused Prowl to flinch briefly before he tensed. Jazz crossed the room slowly and stopped half a meter from Prowl’s tightly closed knees.

What words could he say to dispel the fear he had caused? Jazz had half a mind to be angry, to be furious. The sight of that Decepticon looming over Prowl had made Jazz more angry than he had been in a very, very long time. He'd wanted to stride in, pull the mech off, rip him to pieces.

But anger would not soothe his Praxian. Slowly, Jazz sank to his knees and held out his hands.

“I'm so sorry, Prowl,” was all he could think to say.

It took a few moments for realization to dawn on Prowl’s face, followed by a flood of relief that had his whole frame loosening in a heavy sigh. “You-it was just a ruse? You were faking?” Prowl’s voice shook.

Jazz nodded. “I'm sorry.” He remembered the look in Prowl’s optics, the resignation on his face, the way he hadn't resisted both Jazz and the Decepticon. Fury surged through Jazz’s frame, but he didn't let it show. It was not directed at Prowl. It would do him no good to see it.

“I thought…” Prowl trailed off, and his lips twisted. “I'm sorry I–”

“Don't be sorry, you don't have to be sorry.” Jazz reached out his hands and, when Prowl did not pull away, took Prowl’s in his own from where they rested on the doorwinger’s knees. Jazz held those pretty, white servos tightly, earnestly. “I could've– should've thought of a better way out.”

Selfish, selfish, always selfish. What a stellar Autobot Jazz made.

“No, no, it wasn't–” Prowl shook his helm hard, even as tears formed at the corners of his optics. “You did what you had to do, Jazz.”

Jazz laughed weakly and lowered his helm to look at Prowl’s white, white servos, clasped in his own rough, silver claws. “I'm sorry for making you doubt me, Prowler.” Jazz wanted to kiss those servos, press them to his forehead and weep, beg forgiveness for causing that bright fear in Prowl’s eyes, the doubt. But he had to be strong, had to hold his shaken friend together.

“And I'm sorry for doubting you.”

He was sweet, too sweet. Too good. Jazz knew, of course. Knew that Prowl had done things little better than some acts which Jazz himself had committed. But still, Prowl was good. It glowed in his chest, the sympathy and empathy he so rarely acted on, the loyalty and devotion that drove him.

Prowl needed protecting, from himself and from others. And Jazz was more than willing to be the one to protect him. Perhaps it was selfish, to want to be so near to the Praxian– to hold him and keep him and give him everything, anything. But if Jazz’s selfishness kept Prowl alive and well and unhurt, then it was worth whatever condemnation awaited him in the next life, if a next life even existed.

“Ain't no shame in it, love,” Jazz murmured, looking up. The tears sat unshed in Prowl’s eyes, and Prowl let out a shuddering exhalation. Jazz itched to reach up and brush those tears away. “You're safe. I'll keep you safe from him.”

Jazz had been referring to the Decepticon, but, upon catching the mixed consternation, relief, and resignation in Prowl’s eyes, Jazz found himself wondering if there was something (or someone) else he ought to protect Prowl from, even if it was only a memory.

Thoughts flickered in Prowl’s gaze, words that Jazz couldn't hear. At last, his tactician said, “I trust you, Jazz.”

Jazz had known that, theoretically. In the same way that you know that something rests just outside your field of vision. It's there, you know, but you can't confirm it, not unless you look, or it moves enough that you can see it. So Jazz had known, theoretically, that Prowl trusted him, at least a bit. Hearing it from the mech, however, all but took Jazz’s breath away.

“Thank you,” Jazz murmured. And then he brought Prowl’s servos up, pressed his lips to them once, twice. “I trust you, Prowl.” He squeezed Prowl’s servos and offered a faint smile.

‘Better than a love declaration,’ said an old, old memory.

Jazz sighed, closed his optics and released Prowl’s servos. Pulling away, Jazz rose to his pedes slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements.

“We can't stage a rescue while the base is still on alert.” Jazz reached into his subspace and drew out a lowgrade cube he'd snagged from the base’s dwindling rations. “Fuel up and sleep, I'll wake you when it's time.”

Prowl accepted the cube and broke open the seal, drinking the contents quickly. Jazz smiled faintly at the sight. When Prowl discarded the cube in subspace, Jazz made to step back. A white servo reached out, though, and Jazz halted long enough for Prowl to take his hand.

“You need sleep too,” Prowl whispered.

“I gotta make sure neither of us are gonna be killed in our sleep, love.”

Prowl tucked his chin slightly, but he didn't let go. “At least rest, then.” And he tugged slightly. An invitation, a request. He looked up, meeting Jazz’s gaze.

“You sure, Prowl?” Jazz asked softly. He didn't want to hurt Prowl with his presence, his touch.

“Just don't smother me.” Prowl smiled weakly, but Jazz saw the earnest fear behind the small turn of Prowl’s lips.

Jazz squeezed Prowl’s servo softly as he moved forward. “Alright, then.” He reached out, stopping just short of touching Prowl’s shoulder. “Scoot up against the wall, love, I’ll be on the outside.” Like always.

Prowl lay on his side, close to the wall. Jazz lay back on the rumpled sheets, settling down with one knee bent. Staring up at the rivets in the ceiling, Jazz pulled one of his knives from subspace and held it tightly. If anyone came through that door, they'd be dead before they could even blink.

At Jazz’s side, Prowl shifted. He moved closer and closer, until Jazz found that the Praxian had pulled Jazz’s arm into a tight embrace and pressed his face to Jazz’s shoulder. Prowl’s breathing slowed, and his frame relaxed, until at last he lay in a deep, exhausted recharge.

As close together as they were, Jazz could feel the pulsing of Prowl’s spark, steady and slow. Jazz turned his helm to look at Prowl, at the place where their plating met, the clashing of black and white against dark, burnished silver.

Maybe once this was all over, he ought to get a paint change, Jazz thought. Silver was for intimidation, harshness. And while that was certainly all well and good…

Jazz considered his servo, his worn claws laced with Prowl’s slender digits as the other mech clung tightly even in recharge. Tilting his head, Jazz pressed a kiss to Prowl’s smooth, white helm.

“We gonna walk this road together, as far as it takes us, love,” Jazz murmured to the sleeping Praxian. “I promise.” And then he settled in to wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My thanks for the reception to the previous chapter- I was nervous about it. This one is the final direct look that any of us will get into Jazz's head, but I think that it's an enlightening one.  
> Without a beta, my only feedback is through comments, so if you can, drop a comment :)


	29. Chapter 29

In the end, the hardest part of escaping was actually convincing Sunstreaker and Sideswipe of Jazz’s sincerity. Strikedown and Loopgain seemed equally dubious, but they had seen and heard far less of the scene that had ended in Jazz taking Prowl away.

It was Sideswipe who had turned to Prowl and said seriously, “Are you sure about him?”

And Prowl had replied with equal seriousness. “Yes.”

With Sideswipe unable to transform, getting away from the outpost was slow. Prowl remained on high alert, careful of any sign that they were being pursued. They'd managed to get a good kilometer and a half away before Prowl called for a rest so Sideswipe could get his energy back. A rocky outcrop jutted from the ground, and they clustered at its base.

Looking back over the low hills that now separated them from the outpost, Prowl said (more to himself than the others), “We still have a mission to complete.” His spark cringed at the thought of going back.

Jazz glanced up from examining his weapons. “I could go back. Wouldn't take long– set charges, blow ‘em. Quick an’ easy.”

Prowl opened his mouth to give a reply he hadn't yet thought of, but Sunstreaker beat him to it.

“I'm going with you, then. Like slag you're gonna run back to the ‘Cons without someone to watch you.”

It wasn't hard to sketch a quick plan for the two mecha. Prowl offered to accompany them, more out of a sense of duty than desire, but both Jazz and Sunstreaker vehemently refused.

“Better with just two,” said Jazz.

“Like slag I'm leaving Sides without someone competent to watch him,” said Sunstreaker, ignoring the sounds of discontent that Strikedown and Loopgain made.

Prowl accepted the way out for what it was and didn't insist. He watched them drive off, back the way they'd come, and hoped that Jazz would come back. (Of course he would, Jazz would never be downed by something so simple as an outpost full of subpar Decepticon soldiers.)

Without the goal of escape encompassing Prowl’s processor, the mech found himself with nothing to occupy him except memories. Dragging himself back to the present, Prowl set Strikedown and Loopgain to setting a small perimeter. They went easily, looking briefly at each other, at Prowl, at Sideswipe as they left.

Prowl stepped over to Sideswipe, who'd been propped up against the rock-face. A cursory examination revealed nothing serious. Prowl turned away.

“You gonna be alright, boss?” Sideswipe asked, voice casual.

“Of course.” Prowl turned his face to the plains, closed his optics and tried to control himself. He built a wall about his memories, about the tight twisting of his spark. He took deep breath after deep breath, and with every inhale the walls grew thicker. It didn't work, of course, at least not perfectly. But the practice gave Prowl some modicum of comfort.

By the time bright flames lit up the horizon, Prowl had almost managed to bring himself under control.

 

The medics took Sideswipe away the moment the shuttle settled down. Sunstreaker followed close behind, ignored by the medics. Strikedown and Loopgain went separate ways, perhaps to find company or fuel or rest.

Prowl set off on his own route, hyper aware of Jazz following behind him.

So late at night (or perhaps, rather, early in the morning), the washracks were almost completely empty, and those that were there were the sort who didn't care to intrude on other people’s privacy.

Prowl made his way to the stall furthest from the entrance. White, clean tile concealed him from prying optics, though the sound of his steps clattered off the walls. Reaching out, Prowl turned on the water, ratcheting up the heat until his world was awash with white steam.

Stepping under the spray, Prowl sighed as the near scalding water ran under his plating. Closing his optics, he sank into himself until all he had was the sound of water on metal and tile, the warmth of the steam and the water, the slowing of his spark, the prickling at his optics.

Jazz’s steps were barely audible above the pounding of the water, and Prowl’s wings were heavy with the sensation of the other’s frame an arm’s length away.

“Want help washin’ your back, love?” Jazz asked softly.

It wasn't a real offer, not wholly. It was a show of solidarity, an offer for comfort should it be needed. Prowl was likely expected to refuse it, as any mech who'd gone through what he had would do. It was expected. But Prowl had always been bad at being normal, at doing what was expected.

No, Prowl knew what he wanted. Knew that Jazz would likely give it to him, if he only asked. Lips to kiss away the bitter taste, servos to soothe the memory of a rough touch. Prowl’s pride had usually managed to keep him from this path before, but what pride was there to shield him from Jazz? Why shield himself from Jazz at all?

“Yes.” Prowl extended a servo, grabbed a bottle of solvent from a rack on the wall as he took an old cloth from subspace. His wings prickled as Jazz stepped closer.

“You sure?”

“...yes.” Prowl put some solvent on the rag and scrubbed until the cloth was white with soapy foam. He began to clean his arms, quickly and nervously, his spark shuddering with agitation.

Jazz paused. “Okay.”

Prowl tensed when, a few seconds later, a cloth touched his back. Forcing himself to relax, Prowl set his attention on cleaning the front of his frame. At his back, Jazz’s touch was firm and unobtrusive, his movements meant only for the goal of cleaning Prowl’s frame.

Prowl could have relaxed into it, into the reassurance of Jazz’s servos, but he didn't. Couldn't. He had something he wanted (needed? Did he even want it?) and he had to find a way to get it.

(It wasn't what he wanted, some part of Prowl knew. But how else to get a gentle touch, an embrace, a hand to hold? For Prowl, so strange and defective and unwanted, such intimacy only came from one place, one act. He knew this, at least. This one truth that did not change, despite how often his circumstances did.)

When Prowl bent over slightly to clean his legs, he paused. At his thighs and hips were streaks of green paint, barely there but still unmistakeable. A shudder wracked Prowl’s frame, and he felt the servo on his back plating pause.

“You okay, Prowler?”

“Fine.” Prowl scrubbed feverishly at the paint transfers. It wouldn't do for Jazz to see evidence of Prowl’s weakness.

As he erased the green that marked his hips, Prowl paused again. Jazz had his attention on Prowl’s doorwings, and there was no mistaking the sparks that such contact caused in Prowl’s frame. For the best, it was for the best. Prowl ran a digit over the seam of his panel, and felt a mild response from his interface equipment.

Jazz would be gentle, Prowl hoped. Gentle enough to soothe his frame and his mind.

“All done here,” Jazz said, stepping back. Prowl heard the shift of plating as Jazz began to clean his own frame.

Bending over, Prowl made quick work of washing the dust from his legs and pedes. Stepping under the spray of the water, Prowl sighed. His spark shivered in its casing, but Prowl refused to be dissuaded. He _needed_ this (didn't he?).

Prowl turned to Jazz, and spared a moment to admire his friend’s frame. Jazz was a very handsome mech. Prowl ~~should~~ did want him.

“Would you like me to return the favor?” Prowl asked quietly, extending his servo that held his soapy cloth. Jazz looked up, his expression one of mild surprise.

“Sure, Prowler.” The silver mech turned his back to Prowl, and Prowl stepped forward and set to the task of cleaning his friend's back. Prowl wondered if perhaps he ought to somehow indicate his intentions whilst cleaning Jazz’s frame, but nothing came to mind.

For a few minutes, Prowl forgot his goal, forgot everything. He just stood in the warmth of the white steam and helped Jazz clean his frame with firm, absent-minded motions.

Then they were both clean, and Jazz turned off the water, and Prowl found that he was suddenly very cold, and his spark beat fast with nervous agitation.

Prowl dried his frame quickly, his servos tense and his throat tight. Jazz seemed to be utterly calm, his movements quick but unhurried.

“Ready to go, Prowler?” He asked. Prowl nodded.

The walk to their quarters went by far too quickly. Prowl reached his door and typed in the code, biting the inside of his cheek to keep the shivering of his spark from showing on his frame. The door opened, and Prowl stepped inside. When Jazz didn't follow Prowl paused, turning about.

“You gonna be okay?” Jazz asked, his lips turned into a small smile.

“I–that is, I would rather...” It was strange how difficult this was to ask, when Prowl had little difficulty seducing other mecha for his purposes.

Perhaps it was because none of them had been his friend. Perhaps it was because he had never really wanted them.

Biting his lip, Prowl reached out and took Jazz’s servo in his before he could lose his nerve. “Come inside? Please?” He stared at Jazz and hoped the other mech could read the intent in his optics because Prowl couldn't make himself ask it in words.

Jazz’s lips pursed, but he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. Prowl's spark shuddered, and he felt his wings shiver.

“What is it you want, love?” Jazz asked softly. His voice soothed the shaking in Prowl’s chest for a moment, loosening the tension between his wings for a split second.

Then it all came back, and Prowl took a step forward. Lifted a servo and tentatively touched Jazz’s face. “Please.” Prowl directed the silver servo he still held to rest on his hip. Those claws shifted slightly, settling about the shape of Prowl’s plating with ease.

Jazz looked down at Prowl, his visor bright and utterly unreadable. Prowl stared up at his friend desperately. He needed, he _needed_. His spark ached to be distracted, to be comforted, and this was the only way. (The only way he'd ever known, ever been taught.)

“You don't want this, Prowler.” Jazz shook his head, and the light of his visor softened. His lips pursed, the corners tightening. “Primus, love, this isn't what you need right now.”

“It is. I need this.” He didn't, and he did.

“But you don't want it.” Jazz looked earnestly at Prowl. “What do you want, Prowl.”

Prowl felt his throat tighten. Felt the thick walls he'd built up begin to crumble.

“I just want you to hold me.” His voice cracked at the end, and everything came tumbling out. Tears pricked at the corners of Prowl’s optics, and he sucked in a shuddering breath. “Please, please, I just want–” He wanted so much, and he could barely articulate what it was even to himself.

(More, he wanted more. But it was dangerous to want this, to want Jazz. Prowl had been burned so many times.)

Jazz lifted his free servo and rested it over the one Prowl had laid on his cheek. Wrapped his silver claws about Prowl’s servo and tilted his helm to press his lips against it. “Of course, love,” he murmured. “You don't gotta ‘face me for me you give you my- my affection, Prowler.”

And then Jazz wrapped his arms about Prowl and pulled him close. Prowl looped his arms about his friend's neck and buried his face in Jazz’s shoulder.

“I'm right here, love, and I ain't gonna leave.”

Prowl felt lips press against his helm, felt Jazz tighten his hold. Prowl shuddered once and then relaxed, the frantic pulsing of his spark finally beginning to slow.

“Come on.” Jazz urged Prowl over to the berth, laying back onto it and pulling Prowl after him. Prowl curled into Jazz’s warmth, letting out a shaky sigh. Jazz held Prowl close, let Prowl rest his helm on his shoulder.

“All you gotta do is ask me, love, and I'll keep you safe like this.” Jazz’s voice hummed through Prowl’s plating, low and reassuring.

“I can't. I can't ask you for this.” Too close, too close.

Jazz bent his helm over Prowl’s. The silver mech’s chest rose and fell with his ventilations, and Prowl laid a servo over it just so he could feel the pulsing of Jazz’s spark beneath his fingers.

“Then I'll ask. And one o’ these days, you can ask on your own.” The press of lips against Prowl’s helm. “Go to sleep, love. I'll be here when you wake up.”

Prowl faded into recharge, and while the warmth of Jazz’s presence didn't chase away the nightmares, at least Prowl wasn't alone in them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, this chapter is a bid odd because Prowl is a) traumatized and thus has very chaotic thoughts, and b) is mixing up what he thinks he wants with what he thinks he needs. It's all very confusing, and I'm not sure it makes sense even to me, but it's not really supposed to. It's all excuses and confusion.  
> Second of all, some of you may have noticed that this is not our regularly scheduled broadcast. That is because the idea struck me to finish posting this fic before the end of the year. That means you'll all be getting one chapter a day (barring Sunday) with the ending chapter corresponding neatly with the end of the year. You'll find, when you get there, that it's actually very poetic.  
> It's basically an early-to-late Christmas present for all my amazing readers. Twelve days of Christmas except its New Years and only nine days (eight, now).


	30. Chapter 30

“You know, all things considered, I think I'd be allowed to get drunk.”

Prowl shook his head disapprovingly. “You're a commander, Smokescreen, and a key one at that. It would reflect poorly on command if you were to get yourself drunk.”

“Aw, come on, Prowl!” Bluestreak leaned forward across the rec. room table. “If there's any time for two command staff to get drunk, it's this.”

“Two?” Prowl looked at the younger Praxian skeptically. “Clearly you've assumed I would participate in this.”

“It's a memorial, Prowl! We’re honouring their memories!” Smokescreen gestured to the cubes of engex he’d procured from some place unknown.

“By getting drunk.”

Smokescreen shrugged.”It’s what all of them would have wanted. Praxus loved her engex as much as she loved her art.”

Prowl pursed his lips. “I just can't help but feel as though this is… dishonourable to their memory.”

“We aren't going to get happy drunk, Prowl, we’re gonna get sad drunk.” Smokescreen jabbed a finger. “And don't make me order you, okay? ‘Cause as your commanding officer, I totally can.”

Prowl’s optics narrowed. “You're already tipsy, aren't you?”

“Yeah.” Smokescreen shrugged. “Was gonna do it on my own, but then I thought, we Praxians gotta stick together, so now we’re all here.” The TacHead’s lips twisted bitterly. “All three of us.”

“Please, Prowl.” Bluestreak smiled, small and wan.

With a sigh, Prowl nodded. “Alright, give me a cube.”

One whole century. One hundred years. Thirty-six thousand, five hundred twenty-four days since Praxus fell. Since innumerable lives were lost. Since Prowl watched, helpless, as his city and his people were razed to the ground.

Prowl knocked back the engex.

 

The next few hours passed in a blur of drinking and reminiscing. Smokescreen had quite a few stories to tell about his apparent ‘rebellious youth’ in Praxus, and Bluestreak spent half an hour tearily recanting tales about himself and a group of friends he'd had in Praxus.

Sideswipe and Sunstreaker had sat down with them then. Apparently they were good friends with Bluestreak, which Prowl hadn't known, and they comforted the young Praxian as he cried quietly. Smokescreen shed a few sympathetic tears as well, and drank another cube of engex.

Prowl didn't really have any stories to share. His formative years hadn’t been in Praxus, and he didn't want to talk about- about Barricade, who had always said that cop stories only worked with a certain kind of audience. Prowl was pretty sure this wasn’t that audience.

Sitting back in his chair, shoulders slumped, Prowl watched his fellow Praxians grieve for the things they'd lost. No tears prickled at the corners of Prowl’s optics. Even now, one hundred years after the fact, Prowl couldn't weep for his city. Did that mean there was something wrong with him?

With a heavy sigh, Prowl took a sip of his– was this his fifth cube of engex? Sixth?

“This looks like a pretty slag party.”

Prowl stood up from his chair so fast he almost tripped, and realized abruptly that his equilibrium had been rather poorly affected by his consumption of engex.

That was alright, though, because Jazz was here for the first time in months.

“Woah there, Prowler.” Jazz reached out with dark-painted servos, steadying Prowl as the doorwinger listed to the side.

Prowl looked over his friend, examining the white and blue mech’s plating for faults or injuries. The edges of his vision were blurred, but despite that, Prowl couldn't see anything wrong.

“You changed your paint again,” Prowl managed to say after perhaps too long a time.

Jazz laughed. “Decided black an’ white was a little too much like yours, love. What if we got mistaken for each other?”

Prowl squinted at the bright blue glow of Jazz’s visor. “I don’t find that very likely.”

“Maybe so, love.” Jazz led Prowl back over to the table, nudging him to sit back down in his chair. Dragging a chair from another table, Jazz dropped into it, his frame slouching easily. “So what's this about, eh? Why’re all our Praxians drunk?”

“‘S been a hundred years since Praxus, mech,” Smokescreen slurred. Bluestreak murmured a confirmation from his place tucked under Sideswipe’s arm.

“I see.”

Prowl couldn't quite see where Jazz’s gaze had fallen, but the flicker of light behind his visor seemed to indicate that he was looking at the pile of engex cubes on the table. Prowl felt a flicker of embarrassment, and set his half-full fifth-or-sixth cube on the table.

“Anyone around to help Smokey stumble to his room after y'all are done?” Jazz asked, a faint smirk turning his lips.

Sideswipe shrugged. “We’ll help him out.”

Jazz grinned. “Two Praxians? You twins are gettin' greedy.”

Both Sideswipe and Sunstreaker rolled their optics. Bluestreak let out a hiccup.

“How did the, ah, the thing, Jazz? How did the thing go?” The words in Prowl’s helm didn't translate perfectly to his mouth. His tongue felt strangely thick.

Jazz laughed quietly. The sound reached into Prowl’s chest, loosened the knot about his spark. Prowl looked at his friend, at the polished sheen of his plating. Why did Jazz choose white and blue? Well, it didn't really matter, it looked very good on him anyway.

“The thing went fine, love, seein’ as I'm here an’ in one piece.”

Right, of course. It took Prowl a moment to actually remember where Jazz had been for the past couple months. Ultrix– the city had only fallen into Decepticon hands a few months ago, and SpecOps had called Jazz in to go out and perform proper recon and Ops work. Simple stuff, not too risky given the Decepticons’ recent and thus tenuous hold on Ultrix. A sign that Autobot Command was finally making the decision to trust Jazz, at least a little.

Prowl smiled. “That's good. I’m glad. Very glad.”

The world was blurring at the edges, and Prowl felt suddenly very tired and heavy. The rec. room was decently populated, and though the other Autobots were but distant pinpricks in Prowl’s attention, the room itself had become rather loud. Chatter and laughter and clinking and clattering. It all rang about Prowl’s helm, and he didn't want to be here anymore.

Leaning over to Jazz, Prowl said in an urgent whisper, “I want to leave now. It's too loud.” Even to Prowl’s slightly tinny hearing, the words sounded childish. But Prowl was too drunk and tired to care.

“Let's go then, love." Jazz stood and drew Prowl to his pedes, steadying the doorwinger when the other began to sway.

Bluestreak and Smokescreen all but showered Prowl with somewhat slurred farewells. Bluestreak even stood up to give Prowl a hug. Prowl backed away from the outstretched arms, and guilt struck his spark at the hurt in Bluestreak’s optics.

“I-I just–”

“Prowler’s tired, Blue, don't think anythin’ of it.” Jazz swept in to save the situation, smiling slightly as he held Prowl’s elbow. “You might wanna head to bed too, mechs. The war never sleeps.”

Even drunk, Prowl agreed with Jazz’s last words emphatically. The war never sleeps. The war never ends. It just keeps going and going and going and…

“You with me, Prowler?”

The walk to Prowl’s room had passed in a blur, the journey gone so quickly that Prowl jolted with surprise. Jazz hummed and opened Prowl’s door, leading Prowl in and shutting the door behind them.

“C’mon and sit down.”

Prowl obliged, falling heavily onto his berth at a listing angle. Jazz laughed softly, and pushed Prowl down until he lay on his side. Then the white and blue mech sat on the bed, his weight forming a dip in the mattress that Prowl rolled into slightly. It was a funny feeling, but not unwelcome.

An idea caught in Prowl’s processor, and before it could go away he pulled open the drawer of his bedside table and plucked out a dust-covered holoprojector. Fumbling with it, Prowl managed to turn the thing on. An image flashed up above the base, a frozen video– Prowl and Barricade, half a million years younger, half a million years more innocent.

Prowl stared at it for a long time, his gaze unfocusing until the image was little more than a smeared blur of light and color.

“Prowl?” Jazz’s voice was soft, his words little more than an attempt to bring Prowl back to the present. It worked, and Prowl dropped the holoprojector back into the drawer, shutting away the bittersweet memories. The thud of the drawer closing was almost satisfying.

Laying his helm on the softness of his pillow, Prowl said, “I'm glad you're back, Jazz.” He left a hand outstretched, palm up on the berth. Hoping Jazz would…

Jazz took Prowl’s servo in his and pressed his lips to it briefly. “You always knew where I was, Prowler. I never left your mini-me behind for a moment.”

“It's not the same. If you were dead, the tracker would still work…” Muddled by engex, Prowl felt tears form at the corners of his optics, his lips twisting.

“But you'd know where I was. And I'd come back to you, alive or dead.” Jazz gave Prowl’s fingers another kiss. The motion was familiar and ever welcome, always soothing. “I'll always come back.”

“You can't promise that.”

Jazz smiled. “I make a point of defying the norm, love.” His shadow fell over Prowl’s frame, and lips pressed against the center of Prowl’s chevron. “Sleep off the engex. I'll be nearby.”

Prowl was asleep before the door clicked shut.

 

Life-with-Jazz and life-without-Jazz were startlingly different. It was the difference between light and darkness, stars and void, colour and monochrome. Prowl didn't know how he'd managed to live in that dull world of before-Jazz.

Then Prowl caught himself, and shook those thoughts away. (Too close.)

Regardless of whether or not Jazz actually made such a large difference in Prowl’s life, Prowl couldn't deny that the past few weeks since the saboteur had returned were certainly brighter than before.

The dark cloud on Prowl’s horizon came in the form of the rumor-type intel. Just rumors; Shockwave had come back to Cybertron after over half a century on Luna 2; he'd holed himself up in Tarn; he was doing something. Anything Shockwave did was disconcerting, so naturally the hidden eyes of the Autobot Ops turned towards Tarn, and their hidden ears perked up.

Nothing came of Ops’s apprehensive, long-distance observation of Tarn for a while until one lucky Comms mech managed to intercept an encrypted, outgoing transmission from Tarn.

It was garbled, the encryption high-level and difficult to work through. A few words were recorded before the Decepticons on the line caught on and closed the link.

“....sult in…struction of Cybertron.”

The destruction of Cybertron.

Autobot High Command all but went mad at those words. There was really only one thing to do: find out just what the hell Shockwave was doing in Tarn.

“Send Jazz,” Optimus Prime said to the table of command staff.

Ironhide seemed to choke on air. “Jazz!? He's barely been an Autobot for six years!”

“He's far too great a security risk to send into _Tarn_!” Red Alert exclaimed, optics flashing.

The protests continued until Optimus held up a servo.

“I understand you have doubts,” Optimus Prime said into the restored silence. “But Jazz is incredibly capable. He’s worked with Shockwave before, and is aware of how he runs his facilities. Jazz is also familiar with the city of Tarn. He's the best mech for this operation.”

“No matter how suited Jazz is to the op, he can't be trusted with it,” Red Alert insisted.

Optimus looked to the security director. “Then we send someone we can trust with him.”

Red Alert grimaced. “Who? I can't imagine anyone would want to go into Tarn with an ex-Decepticon as their only backup.”

Ratchet was smirking, Optimus noted. The old medic had clearly already come to a conclusion as to who Optimus was thinking of. And… well, Ratchet wasn't wrong.

“Prowl has shown himself to be compatible with Jazz on an operative level. His training in the Praxus police force, Iacon Mechaforensics, and the Security Services render him able to effectively aid Jazz during this operation.”

Ironhide shook his helm vehemently. “Prowl is too close to Jazz. If worst comes to worst-”

“Prowl will make the right decision.” Optimus Prime turned a hard look on his subordinate and friend. “Jazz alone would be able to carry this operation out. If it is decided that Jazz required supervision and aid, then Prowl is capable of providing that.”

“Why not send another mech who's _actually_ from the SpecOps department?” Stormset sat forward in his chair, a mild expression on his face. “Mirage, perhaps, or Punch.”

Smokescreen shook his helm. “Jazz doesn't trust anyone in Ops, at least not with his life.”

Ironhide scoffed. “Well maybe we shouldn't given him a choice on that.”

“We don't have time for those kinds of exercises,” Optimus said, reclaiming the conversation. “Shockwave is up to something in Tarn, and we have to know what it is. Jazz is the best for the job, and Prowl is best for Jazz. We can all agree on that, at least.”

Grumbling assent came from Ironhide and Red Alert.

“We need to take action,” Optimus continued. “We can't afford to hesitate. Jazz and Prowl will go to Tarn and find out what Shockwave is doing, and what danger this poses to Cybertron.”

And so it was decided.

Optimus Prime sighed quietly, sagging wearily into his chair, and prayed to Primus for the success of this mission. The fate of Cybertron, if reports were to be believed, depended on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To those who may not realize, it has been about five-ish years since chapter 29 (yes i do have a timeline lying somewhere around)  
> But here we have it, friends! The beginning of the last arc. This one has been a long time coming, and I hope it impresses :)


	31. Chapter 31

Prowl knew that if it had been just Jazz on the Tarn op, Jazz would have left for Tarn before the day was out. As it was, Prowl would be going with Jazz, so they had a week to plan.

That week went by far too quickly.

Prowl stood beside the tiny stealth-shuttle, his subspace packed full of rations and equipment. The sky was dark and the base, though never sleeping, was quieter than it was in the day.

Jazz stepped out of the shadows, somehow invisible despite the pale white of his paint. “You ready?” He said, approaching the shuttle silently. Prowl nodded. “Good.” A moment later, Jazz opened up the shuttle’s small door and slipped inside, leaving Prowl to follow him into the cramped space.

The total floorspace was less than that of Prowl’s room. A single chair sat in the cockpit, which made up half the shuttle. Behind the cockpit, with no real door or doorway separating it from the cockpit, was something of a cabin, with a fold-down berth in the wall and storage lockers set in the wall.

Jazz picked his way through the small space and slipped into the pilot’s chair. His servos were a blur on the rows of buttons and switches, bringing the shuttle online and readying it for flight.

“Go ahead and pull out the cot, Prowler,” Jazz said as he signaled the door to close with a hydraulic hiss. “Gonna be a long flight.”

Prowl pulled out the berth and found that it filled more than half of the cabin sitting between the cockpit and the door. Sitting down on the berth, Prowl looked into the cockpit, watching Jazz work. Prowl had little pilot training, but it certainly looked as though Jazz was skipping over quite a few preflight safety checks.

Still, the tiny shuttle lifted off the ground without any problems, rising into the darkness of the night.

Prowl looked out of the curved duraglass windshield. He couldn't see anything more than the sky at this angle, but Prowl didn't mind. The sky was full of stars, bright and numerous, far easier to see now that they were flying away from the unsleeping lights of Iacon.

“It's a straight shot to Tarn and back with the fuel we’ve got. The actual flight’s gonna take more than twelve hours.” Jazz looked over his shoulder at Prowl, grinning. “Twelve-plus hours stuck in a tin can with me, love. Y’sure you can handle it?”

Prowl allowed himself a small smile in reply. “Well I can't turn back now.”

“True, true. Guess you're trapped.” Jazz chuckled quietly.

Silence fell between them, comfortable and unobtrusive. Prowl watched Jazz, the only moving thing in the shuttle besides himself. As far as pastimes go, it wasn't the most interesting, but Prowl was content with it, leaning his shoulder against the cold metal of the wall.

The hours crawled past. At some point, Jazz rose from the pilot chair, leaving autopilot to direct the shuttle to preset coordinates in a carefully winding pattern.

Jazz sat down on the berth next to Prowl, tilting back until he fell onto the thin padding with a faint thump.

“Bring any games?” Jazz asked, his voice loud in the quiet.

“No.” Prowl turned slightly, sitting back against the wall. With a sigh, he let his optics close.

A knuckle tapped against Prowl’s thigh. “You got any books?”

“One or two. You wouldn't find them interesting, though.”

Jazz scoffed. “I'll be the judge of that.” Another tap. “Read to me?”

Prowl pulled a datapad out of subspace, flicking it online and opening one of his bookfiles. “It's a detective mystery,” Prowl warned. Jazz let out a laugh.

“That's fine with me, love.”

Shifting into a more comfortable position, Prowl began reading aloud from where he’d left off.

 

The console beeped, and Jazz rolled off the berth in a motion than somehow managed to be both graceful and clumsy at the same time. Dropping into the pilot seat, Jazz reclaimed control from the autopilot.

“We’re getting closer to Tarn. Check our resources, make sure we aren't missing anything.”

“It's a little late for that, isn't it?” Prowl began pulling things out of his own subspace as well as the storage lockers, checking them against the inventory he'd written up back in Iacon.

“Never too late for a check, love.”

Prowl busied himself with checking and double-checking their resources and puzzling over the tools Jazz had stashed in the lockers. When that was over with, Prowl immersed himself in considering various tangents that his processors came up with. None of them were solid, and all of them ranged from reasonable to ridiculous.

When the shuttle shuddered into its landing, Prowl was thankful for the distraction from his spiralling thoughts. Checking to make sure he'd left nothing unpacked, Prowl got up from the berth and set it back into the wall, glancing into the cockpit.

Through the glass of the windshield, Prowl saw grey walls and a dark sky. Jazz shut down the shuttle swiftly, stepping out of the pilot seat when all was over with.

“‘S a bit out of the way, but that just means it'll be harder for ‘Cons to find the shuttle.” Jazz said as he opened the door and hopped down to the ground. Prowl followed, nudging the door to close behind him as he took in his surroundings.

Every city had its secrets and undergrounds, and Jazz knew more of Tarn’s than any other city. The layers of Old Tarn were crumbling and long forgotten, but they could still be used as tunnel systems.

“It was a glitch fitting the shuttle through,” Jazz said, setting his hands on his hips and looking up into the staggered hole that the shuttle had come down through. Prowl could just make out glimpses of Tarn up above; empty, crumbling buildings framing a near-black sky.

“You managed it. Well done,” Prowl deadpanned, flashing a brief smile to Jazz.

Jazz grinned back for a short moment before his expression grew serious. “Alright, closest safehouse is a good walk away from here. We’re on the outskirts, so we shouldn't run into trouble, but try not to catch the light, love. Those wings of yours are like a beacon.”

“Right.” Prowl tucked his doorwings lower, shifting uncomfortably.

“Follow me, and stick close. Damn city’s a fraggin’ maze.”

 

It was either luck, fate, or skill that they didn't encounter any Decepticon patrols. Tarn was quite a bit different from other cities Prowl had been in; there was a taint in the air, like smoke. It was bitter to taste, and harder to look at.

Jazz’s safehouse was a rundown residential unit. No lights lit the windows, but movement hinted at occupants. Jazz let the way into a dingy hallway, marked by soot and graffiti. Prowl expected Jazz to walk silently, as he often did, but instead the mech’s steps were loud and clipped, like rapping against a door. A statement and a warning to others in the building.

On the third floor of the building, Jazz unlocked a flimsy looking door with an elaborate doorcode. When the door swung open, Prowl wasn't surprised to see that the door and its frame had been reinforced from the inside.

The residential unit itself, however, was plain, and incredibly dusty.

“How long has it been since you came here?” Prowl asked, running a digit through the thick layer of dust on the low table in the middle of the room. The couch and single chair had been covered in tarps, removing the hopeless and ultimately redundant task of dusting off the cloth.

“Dunno, probably centuries.” Jazz closed the door and slid the deadbolt into place. “Good thing I put the tarps down, huh? Only reason I even had those was I had to drag around bodies last time I used this safehouse. Ignore the energon stains.”

Prowl scoffed and left the tarps where they were, walking over to the only other room in the tiny unit. The bedroom was just as dusty as the main room, but the berth was thankfully covered by yet another tarp (Prowl could actually see the stains on that one).

“Did you actually keep any equipment here?” Prowl asked, wandering back out to the main room.

“Doesn't look like there's anythin’ left.” Jazz poked his head out from under the kitchenette’s sink. “You think this energon is soured?” He nudged a dusty energon cube into Prowl’s line of sight.

Prowl grimaced at the cube. “Don't risk it.” Prowl took two rations from subspace, dropping one into Jazz’s waiting servo.

Jazz opened the cube and took a sip. “So, plan. Step one, we repaint ourselves so we don't look like Autobots trying to infiltrate Tarn.”

“I'm unaware of any faction-specific colour palettes,” Prowl replied, pulling the tarp off the couch in one quick motion and sitting down on the creaky cushions. With a sigh, he opened up his own ration and downed half of it.

“Jus’ ‘cause you're unaware doesn't mean they don't exist.” Jazz dropped into the couch beside Prowl, causing a chorus of disconcerting creaks from the old piece of furniture. “Step one, repaints. Step two, reconnaissance. Step three, infiltration.”

“You're missing quite a lot of steps in between.”

“Those ones are named with decimal points. So what colours do you want?” Jazz pulled a few cans of paint from his subspace. “I have black, grey, and… would you look at that, black again.”

Prowl rolled his optics. “Black.”

“Good choice.”

It took a few hours to repaint parts of their frames. By the end of it, Prowl was more black than white, in a style that reminded him too much of Barricade. Jazz had augmented his white with grey, and Prowl had to spend a few minutes explaining why a camo pattern was beyond Prowl’s skills as a painter.

Seeing Jazz with a red visor again was less unnerving than Prowl would have thought. A few moments of digging on Prowl’s part was all it took before he finally found the old string of code that would turn his own optics a pale shade of amber.

The tarnished mirror on the wall gave Prowl the chance to look at his reflection. He only looked for a moment, though, before turning away; seeing that shade of amber again after so long drove a bitter spear through Prowl’s spark.

Jazz stood by the door, one hand on the doorknob. The turn of his mouth and the glow of his visor felt far too knowing. Prowl crossed the room with quick steps, eager to leave his reflection behind.

“You ain't him, love,” was all Jazz said before opening the door and leading the way out. Prowl could only follow.

The next couple days were filled with reconnaissance. The first task had been locating Shockwave’s lab. Not too difficult, given how key Shockwave and his works were to the Decepticon faction. The lab was set apart from the center of the city, where Megatron had set up one of the largest Decepticon hubs, but still heavily guarded. Getting in would be a task that Jazz alone would accomplish.

Prowl felt as though he were holding his breath. As though, if he released it, the Decepticons would know that he and Jazz were in one of their primary cities. Escaping an entire city of Decepticons aware of his presence, while perhaps not impossible for Jazz, was absolutely beyond Prowl’s capabilities.

A city is a city, though, no matter who occupies it in wartime. Tarn was darker than Praxus had been, quieter than Iacon, but the furtive markets were full of mecha, and the bars had no shortage of customers. People went about their lives, sidestepping the Decepticon patrols as though they were simply rocks for a stream to circumvent.

Despite everything, the war had not claimed everyone. Prowl allowed that fact to comfort him as he watched Jazz leave for a more close-up observation of Shockwave’s lab and security.

“Don't be goin’ anywhere while I'm gone,” Jazz said as he put various weapons in his subspace and on his person.

“Where would I go?” Prowl replied in a tone that belied the tension in his wings and servos.

Jazz shrugged as he held a knife up to the light, checking the blade. “Heard about a good bar nearby, maybe we can drop by sometime.”

“Maybe,” Prowl said quietly, his doorwings twitching with agitation. Jazz looked over and offered a reassuring smile.

“Don't go bein’ worried, love, I could do this kinda thing in my sleep.” Secreting the knife, Jazz stepped over to Prowl and took one white servo in his own. “You can always find me, Prowler.” Lips brushed against Prowl’s knuckles, prompting a faint smile.

“Just make sure I don't have to.” It was impulse that had Prowl’s digits flicking out, grazing over Jazz’s cheek briefly before falling away. Jazz let Prowl’s servo fall and took a step back.

“I'll be back in about seven hours. Don't wait up.” With those parting words, Jazz stepped out the door and closed it behind him, leaving Prowl alone in the quiet of the safehouse.

Prowl sat down on the couch and prepared to wait. An hour passed, and Prowl had lost himself to his thoughts and a discarded datapad.

Then the door exploded inwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slow, transition-type chapter. Tomorrow's chapter will be very, very special. It has been a concept since I wrote chapter 11, a speck of an idea since chapter 7, and I absolutely cannot wait to finally give it to you guys.  
> Twenty-odd hours remain, my friends.


	32. Chapter 32

Prowl rose from the darkness of unconsciousness. His senses came back to him one by one, first hearing, then touch, then the others in quick succession.

Metal shifted against metal in a room much larger than the last room Prowl had occupied. Judging by Prowl’s position half curled on the floor, it seemed that he'd been dragged in whilst unconscious and dumped there. No restraints weighed down his frame, no drugs slowed his processes. Apart from the ache in his helm and the twinge in his knee, Prowl was unharmed.

Cracking open his optics, Prowl looked at what he could see of his surroundings. The room was poorly lit, grungy, and almost certainly underground. In fact, Prowl thought, the room might be part of the Old Tarn labyrinths. The labyrinths that only people with the need to hide ran into.

Frowning, Prowl considered his current dilemma. Who had taken him? Why? Where to? According to his chronometer, he’d been unconscious for almost an hour, which left five hours until Jazz even started _looking_ for him, unless the mech finished his mission early. At least there was no question as to whether or not Jazz _would_ search– a blown up doorway didn't exactly scream ‘consensual participant’.

Somewhere at Prowl’s back, a door creaked open. Prowl tensed for a barely moment before forcing himself to go limp, feigning unconsciousness. The door did not shut, but the steps that crossed the large room were heavy and measured. Perhaps Prowl’s captors thought him incapable of getting past this mech and to the door.

Prowl took measured ventilations, resisting the urge to twitch as the mech drew near. The sound of his steps alone was enough to inform Prowl that the mech was rather large, perhaps a truck or tank.

The steps halted, and Prowl felt the cool weight of the mech’s shadow.

“You’ve clearly forgotten how easily I see through your lies, Lieutenant.”

Prowl spark lurched in his throat, and for a moment he thought he might throw up. Scrambling to his pedes, Prowl spun around even as he took several steps back.

Tall and broad, his colours a vibrant gold and red. A figure out of the past (out of a nightmare). His optics shone a brighter blue than Prowl remembered, his shoulders were almost wider than they were in those memories Prowl did not, would not remember. His lips were curled in a knowing smirk, his servos reaching…

Prowl stumbled away from his outstretched servo, optics wide and doorwings rattling. Distantly, Prowl recognized the beginning symptoms of his spark contractions. ‘I can't find the cause– they're almost entirely random,’ First Aid had informed Prowl once, years ago. ‘The main trigger seems to be stress, however.’

The part of Prowl’s processor that wasn't screaming managed to laugh ruefully. Yes, this whole situation was turning out to be very, very stressful.

Pressing a servo to his chest as though the pressure could negate the building burn, Prowl stared up at _him_. At the mech that Prowl thought to be no more than an old memory, a terror meant only for nightmares.

“You have questions. I understand.” The greater mech nodded slowly, his expression fading to one more (disgustingly) empathetic. “Dead mechs don't often come back. But I was never dead in the first place.”

Never dead. He had never been dead at all. Prowl felt like screaming, but his throat was so tight he couldn't have made a sound if he’d tried.

“You look frightened, Lieutenant. Where is your stoicism?” That servo reaches out again, even though Prowl was too far away to touch. “Was your helm wound more serious than we thought? I'm afraid my mechs here aren't as sophisticated as those I had in the Security Services.”

Right, right, Prowl was a captive. There were protocols for this, things to say and things not to say. Name, rank, and number.

“Say something, Lieutenant. It's hard to gauge your injury when you won't let me close.” His voice hadn't changed at all, still that strange mix of arrogant, passive, warning, ingratiating.

“Prowl, Lieutenant Commander, ΞΠ3712.” Name, rank, number. Prowl scratched at the plating of his chest, his breath quickening as every pulse of his spark grew more painful.

“So formal, Lieutenant.” That great helm tilted to the side, that cool gaze tinted with mild intrigue. “You seem to be in pain, do you need a medic?”

Prowl choked out a reply. “Prowl, Lieutenant Commander, ΞΠ3712.” The silence that followed was oppressive, and Prowl didn't dare look up, fighting the pain that urged him to curl up on the ground.

“I have never found your stubbornness endearing, Lieutenant, and I will not begin to.” His voice was heavy with displeasure, every word weighing Prowl down. Then the weights were lifted as the greater mech said, “But perhaps it is merely your pain that makes you so. These episodes don't last long, correct? Fifteen minutes at most?

“If you need time to recover, Lieutenant, you need only ask. Let it not be said that Sentinel Prime cares not for his subordinates.”

Prowl had managed to avoid thinking that name for decades. For centuries. But now it was forced on him, like a hammer breaking a lock. The memories had always been there, always lurking, but now they were sharper. Prowl couldn't escape them.

The pain in his spark flared, and Prowl’s knees threatened to buckle. Stumbling a few steps back, Prowl fought against the urge to double over, hug his knees to his chest and pretend the pressure made the pain fainter. Pathetic, he looked pathetic. Hunched over and pained while Sentinel Prime stood tall and proud a few meters away.

“Nothing to say, Lieutenant?” Sentinel said. He didn't move to approach Prowl, and Prowl offered up a grateful prayer to Primus for it.

Prowl pressed down against his chest with the heel of his hand, rubbing circles and hoping that this episode would be shorter than average.

“Tell me, would you rather we postpone our conversation until you've recovered?” Sentinel’s voice broke through the pain, an unwelcome distraction. Prowl shut his optics against it and hissed through his teeth, sucking in a breath and letting it out.

“Answer me, Lieutenant.” Sentinel Prime began to walk a circle about Prowl, every step slow and measured and powerful. Prowl would have turned with him if he could, but his pedes wouldn't move, and every attempt to straighten up was met with agony.

(He was usually better at handling these. Could stand through it without flinching. But he was weak, so weak before the Prime.)

Prowl wished he could feel the weight of the knife in his subspace, wished he could reassure himself that Jazz could find him, would find him. Reaching into his files, Prowl pulled up the tracker that Jazz had, that blinking light in a figurine that Jazz had promised to carry. Jazz’s coordinates lay a fair distance away, in the proximity of Shockwave’s lab. Prowl couldn't comm. Jazz, not while he was so close to the Decepticons. But by Primus, Prowl wished he could, just to hear the reassurance of Jazz’s voice.

Jazz hadn’t discovered Prowl’s disappearance, not yet (not yet, but he _would_ , of course he would). But the blinking indicator gave Prowl enough courage to say, “Prowl, Lieutenant Commander, ΞΠ3712.”

“You're frustrating me, Lieutenant. I've been very gracious with you thus far, and you have thrown that in my face.” Sentinel Prime paused in the path he walked, coming to a halt behind Prowl’s back. Prowl’s wings shuddered and twitched, the doorwinger’s control shattered by the pain that battered both his spark and his processors.

The great Prime took a step forward, and another. His frame was a heavy heat mere centimeters from Prowl’s doorwings. “The next thing I want to hear from you, Lieutenant,” Sentinel Prime said, “Is an apology.”

Prowl opened his mouth, but he didn't say anything. The past warred with the present, instinct putting apologies on his lips, and his processor urging him to say name, rank, number.

Prowl knew himself to be a fairly brave sort of mech. He'd seen combat and faced it head on, had brushed off pain and hate easily. But he was not brave in the face of this, standing between a rock and a hard place.

So Prowl took the easy way out (the cowardly way), and didn't say anything.

Sentinel Prime’s laugh was low, almost subvocal. It vibrated over Prowl’s doorwings and over his frame, like a flood of scraplets– completely different from the soothing rumble of Jazz’s laugh, his voice, his humming.

“No words? Do you think I do not deserve an apology?” That hot weight leaned down. Prowl felt Sentinel’s helm hover behind his own. “Or are you too stubborn to give one?” Dark, blue optics flickered over the doorwinger’s frame. “You’ve become lax in my absence, Lieutenant. Disobedient.”

Lips brushed against Prowl’s audial. “I'm very disappointed,” Sentinel Prime said in a low voice.

Prowl’s sparkrate ratcheted up, and he didn't know if it was because of the spark contractions or his own primal fear. And it was primal, the dumbstruck numbness of a cornered animal, of a protodeer standing in the glow of an oncoming mech’s headlights, of a mech who sees agony rushing towards him and can do nothing to stop it. The fear froze Prowl’s joints and closed his throat, seizing about his spark in a vice grip.

Ducking his helm, Prowl squeezed his optics shut, lips twisting into a grimace, shoulders hunching. “My apologies, sir,” Prowl managed to say after several long seconds. The words came out strangled, but discernible, and they tasted like ash on Prowl’s tongue.

“For what?” Sentinel managed to make his voice sound inquisitive, half-way interested. Prowl hated it, hated himself, hated Sentinel. Hated that now he’d chosen between resistance and compliance, he couldn't turn back.

“For being impolite.”

Sentinel let out a low, rumbling hum. “Apology accepted, Lieutenant.” His heavy presence receded, but not too far. The Prime began to walk again, and it only took him a few steps to stand before Prowl. “Now, do you need rest?”

Prowl shook his head, straightening as much as he could. “No, sir.” His spark gave a protesting pulse of agony, and Prowl almost hunched over again.

“I understand this is all very perturbing for you, Lieutenant. Ask whatever questions you like, and I will answer them if I can.”

Prowl hated him so much. Hated that he switched between graciousness and malevolence as between transformations, all the while fully aware that his graciousness was never, ever thought to be sincere. How many times had Sentinel extended that kind servo only to drag Prowl close and cause him harm? How many times had the Prime disregarded the well-being of mecha under his command, the sensibilities of Prowl’s command suggestions, the pain he sowed behind him as he walked?

It had been a long time since Prowl felt hate this thick bubble in his chest. Not since he'd looked up at the sky full of Decepticon seekers flying over the ruins of his city.

Prowl hated Sentinel Prime just as much as he hated Decepticons, if not more.

But he feared Sentinel Prime. Feared him as much as he hated him. So he asked questions, because Sentinel Prime wanted him to.

“Why did you capture me?” Prowl said, staring at the broad expanse of Sentinel Prime’s chest, layered gold and red. “How did you know I was here?”

“Praxians are uncommon these days, Lieutenant. When I heard tell of a Praxian in Tarn, I sent mechs to investigate. I knew the moment I saw the pictures that it was you.” Sentinel Prime took a breath and let it out. “As for why I took you… I have plans, Lieutenant. Being dead is advantageous, but it also has its drawbacks. I need you beside me if my plans are to come to fruition.”

“Plans?”

“Nothing concrete as of yet. That is why I need you.” Sentinel bent his helm and lifted a servo. That servo came to rest on Prowl’s shoulder, a heavy weight that sent scraplets crawling under Prowl’s plating. “You are the greatest tactician and strategist there is, Lieutenant. With you by my side, I would easily overcome both Decepticon and Autobot interferences, and restore Cybertron to its former state.” Sentinel’s thumb brushed Prowl’s neck. “You need not answer now, but–”

“No.”

Sentinel Prime went still. Dangerously still. Prowl regretted the words instantly.

“No?” Thick fingers seized Prowl’s chin, dragging him close. Sentinel’s lips were twisted into a warning snarl as he said, “I thought you were past this. Clearly I was wrong. But I am willing to forgive you, Prowl, if you repent.”

Prowl didn't move. “No.” No, he would not be part of Sentinel’s plans. He would not submit to his will again, a tool to be used and abused and cast aside until asked for. He would not be party to whatever Sentinel Prime had planned for the Autobots.

Perhaps to another it may have looked like bravery, but it was not. Prowl shook with his terror, staring up at his former superior, waiting for the punishment that would come. He feared Sentinel, yes, but he feared for the Autobots as well. For Jazz most of all.

(He wished Jazz were here. Jazz would know what to do, what to say. He would fight back, wouldn't give in as Prowl had done. Jazz was so much stronger than Prowl was, and if he were only here he would lend Prowl his strength so Prowl could be strong too. But Jazz wasn't here, and it was only Prowl’s fear that kept him going.)

The backhand was to be expected, but it still came as a surprise. Prowl sprawled across the floor, his pain-weakened knees buckling almost at once. He couldn't even catch himself before his helm hit the floor with a painful thud that rattled through Prowl’s processors.

“I'll never understand why you insist on irritating me, Lieutenant.” Sentinel Prime began to walk away, his broad back turning blurry as Prowl’s optics began to fail. “I'll give you a couple hours to reconsider, and when I come back, I want a proper answer.”

Prowl was unconscious before the door closed in Sentinel’s wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was very pleasantly surprised when many of you theorized that the mech in Prowl's past was Sentinel Prime, back when I asked in chapter 26. Now we're here, and many of you have been pleasantly proven right. I'm proud of you guys.  
> After months of hype for this particular villain in Prowl's past, I absolutely need to see what you guys think. Comment! It's always appreciated.


	33. Chapter 33

Prowl’s chronometer counted the seconds and minutes and hours. Prowl didn’t waste his time watching it, lying where he’d fallen roughly two hours before. He barely moved, except for the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. The far wall had long since dissolved into a blur that refocused every now and then as Prowl’s optics recalibrated.

Prowl was trying not to think. Was trying not wonder where Sentinel Prime was, when he was returning. Where Jazz was, and when he would come. Every so often he felt an itch to check on Jazz’s tracker, but Prowl would resist. He didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to think.

He was such a coward. Too scared to fight back and too scared to give in at the same time.

Prowl’s processor tried to bring it down to two polarities. Sentinel Prime was the source of his fear and his pain. If Sentinel were only gone, Prowl would no longer suffer. Jazz was the opposite of all that. He was strength and warmth and comfort and if Jazz were only here Prowl wouldn't suffer.

None of that was true. Prowl didn't believe his own delusions for a second. This was all his fault, all his doing. If he were stronger, able to stand on his own, able to resist Sentinel Prime and able to do so without Jazz by his side. Jazz, whom he'd known for little more than a century, who he'd somehow known for his whole life, had known for only a minute. Jazz, a mystery wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a smile Prowl could drown in and servos Prowl could sink into.

Everything started and ended with Jazz, here, in this moment. Where Prowl felt terrifyingly alone, awaiting a crossroads, and a choice he couldn't make. If Jazz were only here, Prowl would make that choice in a heartbeat– would choose Jazz.

But Jazz wasn't here, and Prowl was alone, and so disgustingly cowardly.

The door creaked open. Prowl listened to Sentinel’s steps, familiar and dreadful, draw nearer. Sentinel Prime’s shadow fell over the doorwinger, and he said, “Get up, Lieutenant. I thought you had more decorum than this.”

Prowl was tempted to lie still and wait for Sentinel’s wrath to rain down upon him. Let the pain drown out the turmoil of his thoughts. It was very, very tempting, and Prowl honestly wasn't quite sure what made him drag himself to his feet.

“You must be hungry,” Sentinel Prime said in his most condescendingly reassuring voice. “You can't make a proper decision with an empty tank.”

Prowl looked at the cube that Sentinel held out to him. Slowly, he reached out and took it back, breaking the seal and taking a tiny sip. Prowl’s tanks clenched, and he felt almost sick as the midgrade energon slid down his throat.

“I used the wrong approach when asking you to join me, Prowl.”

The doorwinger looked up sharply at the sound of his own name, but Sentinel had turned away. His servos were braced behind his back, his broad shoulders pulled back. The pose was noble, and prompted a familiar fear in Prowl’s spark.

“I underestimated how much you had changed in the centuries since I last saw you. You used to see the big picture, how negative actions may result in a positive outcome.” There was a section of wall that had collapsed. Through the large gaps, Prowl caught glimpses of darkness and specks of light, of life amongst the grime and shadows. The literal underground of Tarn.

Even without the light of day, Prowl could see the halo that had always surrounded Sentinel when he’d stood before the window looking over Kaon. Now he looked over Tarn’s dark underbelly, and managed to be no less noble.

“But now your view has narrowed. You have allowed your sentiments for the Autobots to cloud your judgment. They are no less part of this war than the Decepticons, Prowl, and if both factions are disposed of, then Cybertron may be restored.

“You of all mecha must see that neither faction will win without great sacrifice. But if both factions lose…” Sentinel’s digits twitched, and he rolled his shoulders. “Surely you can see that such would be a better alternative.”

“For whom?” Prowl shouldn't have spoken, but he wanted to know. To understand. Prowl took another sip of the energon Sentinel had given him, and grimaced at the bitter taste that was a product of his processors and nothing more.

“For Cybertron, of course. Surely you can see that this consistent warfare is damaging to Cybertron and its society. If things continue as they are, it won't matter who wins or loses; there won't be any Cybertron left to build a government on.”

Prowl’s hatred for Sentinel Prime was usually a rather level sort of thing; a layer of smoke that encompassed his chest and pulsed in time with his spark. But now it swelled and filled him, rising up in his throat because Sentinel was _right_. Hadn't Barricade said something similar in that Decepticon outpost, all those years ago? Hadn't Prowl considered his words and come to the same conclusion that Sentinel Prime had just turned on him?

“Cybertron is falling victim to the war, Prowl. Cultural centers are becoming military headquarters, civilians are becoming soldiers, and countless millennia of history is lost with every city that falls to either faction’s hand. The old way of life is disappearing, to be replaced by militarism and constant civil war.” Sentinel Prime shifted his weight, took a breath. “The average Cybertronian lifespan may span hundreds of thousands of years. We are functionally immortal. How long will a war such as this last when the ones who started it could conceivably live forever?

“The Autobots and the Decepticons will never stop fighting. You can see that as well as I do. Two opposing cultures are developing in the midst of this war, each one tailored to oppose the principles of the other, and soon they will be the only two cultures left on Cybertron. They will whittle away at one another until they are reduced to scraps, and the world about them to rubble. They will fight each other with an immortal hatred comparable to that of Primus and Unicron. But neither one can come out on top, not in a war such as this. They will destroy each other, and themselves as well.”

Sentinel turned to face Prowl, his optics bright. “I intend to save Cybertron from that fate, Prowl. I will restore our world to its former glory, and wipe out those who would make the future that I have predicted.” He took a step forward, and another, and his passion grew as he drew closer, that quiet yet burning fervor that had once almost made Prowl respect the golden-red Prime.

Prowl’s digits curled about the energon cube in his servos, grip tightening as Sentinel came closer. The greater mech loomed over the lesser one, and reached out a servo to grip his shoulder.

“I _will_ do this, Prowl. And I will have you by my side.” Sentinel Prime stood tall and vibrant, his will like a physical force. “What will you choose, Prowl? A world destined to collapse, and a faction destined to destroy itself? Or a Cybertron that lives and breaths in a peaceful age. Will you resign yourself to being among those who bring Cybertron to ruin?– or will you be with the one who will save it.”

Prowl stared up at the Prime. His thoughts were in turmoil, but they all boiled down to one solid constant: Sentinel was _right_. His words were true, and his vision reasonable. What was the point of winning a war when there would be nothing left to truly win?

Prowl opened his mouth, even though he hadn't even thought of words to say.

Then something flickered at the edge of his awareness, and Sentinel Prime yanked Prowl to the side. The world spun about Prowl as he was manhandled by the greater mech, the energon cube falling to the floor with a clatter and a splash.

In the flash before Sentinel spun Prowl about, Prowl caught sight of a knife embedded in the wall. Then Prowl was pressed back against Sentinel’s chest, an arm about his throat and a servo in the cables under his bumper.

For a moment, Prowl felt fear, thick and choking as he remembered the other times Sentinel had touched him like this, had held Prowl against his chest and touched- but then Prowl saw a familiar strip of blue, and relief crashed over him with enough force that Prowl’s knees almost buckled.

“Jazz!” The word came out strangled, partly because of Sentinel’s arm under Prowl’s chin, and partly because Prowl’s throat had closed up. Tears formed at the corners of Prowl’s optics, and a silent sob followed after the sound of Jazz’s name on Prowl’s lips.

Jazz stood a short distance away, his stance firm and his mouth turned in a tight smile. “Lookin’ a little rough there, Prowler.” His smile softened just slightly as his gaze flicked to Prowl. Then Jazz looked at Sentinel, and his smile disappeared entirely.

Sentinel’s engine rumbled against Prowl’s doorwings as he said, “Jazz... So the rumors of your defection are true.”

“An’ my aim’s better than even the rumors say.” A knife flipped end over end in Jazz’s servo, a spinning fan of shining silver. “So why don't you shut it with the manipulative philosophising and let Prowl go before I put this in your skull.”

“I'm curious as to the nature of your relationship with Prowl,” Sentinel Prime said, unaffected by Jazz’s words. “You're mission partners, for whatever mission brought the two of you to Tarn. But it's been only a few years since you defected, if the timing of the rumors may be believed. And yet, Prowl is so very pleased to see you, a Decepticon whose loyalties are still to be confirmed.” The digits buried beneath Prowl’s chest shifted, curling and hooking and drawing flashes of pain. “Would you risk Prowl’s life in order to kill me, Decepticon Jazz?”

Jazz grinned, sharp and dangerous. “He’s a little small to be a mech shield. I could hit you with my optics shut.”

“I'm not saying you can't.” Sentinel bent his helm, and Prowl felt the Prime’s lips brushing the crown of his helm. “Things go wrong when mechs are in pain, however. You wouldn't want me to accidentally pull out one of his major energon lines, would you? Do you think you would be able to get him to a medic in time to restore the litres of energon he’ll have lost?”

Jazz growled menacingly. “You're pretty long-winded, mech.”

“The side-effects of becoming a Prime.” Sentinel shifted his weight, forcing Prowl to shift his own. “Now if you’ll excuse us, Decepticon Jazz, but I believe Prowl here was about to make a very pivotal decision.”

Prowl had felt better when the two other mecha had been speaking to each other. But now their attentions turned to him, and Prowl felt trapped beneath their gazes.

Then Jazz looked back at Sentinel, his tone flippant and his gaze dark. “A decision, huh? You painted it as bein’ pretty damn black and white, from what I heard you sayin’ when I got here.”

“Perhaps the line is not so cleanly cut, but my words are truthful. Prowl agrees with me, don't you?”

Prowl shifted, doorwings twitching, and quickly grew still when the grip under his bumper tightened. The doorwinger pursed his lips and stared at the ground, his mouth opening for a moment before he closed it. Sentinel’s laugh rattled through him like a swarm of scraplets, and Prowl ducked his helm, lips twisting into a grimace.

“Your silence speaks more than any words you may say, Prowl.” Digits brushed against Prowl’s neck. “What is it that keeps you from my side? Do you truly love your Autobot comrades so dearly, despite their dislike for you? Or is it something else?” The arm about Prowl’s throat shifted, and Sentinel wrapped a servo about his neck and forced his chin up. “Is it him?”

Prowl stared at Jazz, unable to keep the desperation from his face. The visored mech stared back at him, his mouth a thin line. But there was something in his gaze that gave Prowl comfort, soothing the frantic beating of his spark for a few brief moments.

“Why him, Lieutenant? Does he remind you of your past lovers? Does he touch you like I did?” Sentinel’s voice held a smirk, and Prowl could only be relieved that the Prime did not use his servos to demonstrate his point. “You are not usually so sentimentally attached to your lovers, Prowl.

“Unless he is not your lover.” Sentinel’s helm was a heavy presence beside Prowl’s face, his breath a cloud that Prowl avoided breathing in. “Do you believe yourself in love with him? Is that why you insist on keeping your silence? But then, why not say no, and choose him? Or do you doubt him as much as you doubt me.”

Again, Prowl found himself trapped between two different stares. He'd thought that once Jazz arrived, he would be able to make his decision easily. But he was no less conflicted than he'd been a few hours before. Sentinel’s presumptions of the future made sense, and Prowl knew that if he considered them with his processors he would find them to be confirmed.

The future that Sentinel saw was the future Prowl would live, if he chose Jazz. He would see Cybertron crumble beneath the heat and ruin of warfare, would see cities fall and histories fade. Would watch the gulf between the factions widen until there was nothing left between them, no neutrals, no grey area. Just two halves of a single race, bent on killing one another.

But if he chose Sentinel Prime, there was no doubt as to the tyranny Sentinel would bring when his ‘peace’ was restored. He wanted power, not peace. He would warp the world to his own will, and twist it into something unrecognizable. He would be hungry for more, would reach his arm beyond Cybertron and for the planets beyond. Instead of civil war, Sentinel would bring Cybertron into an age of warlords.

“Prowler, look at me.” Jazz’s voice broke through Prowl’s spiraling thoughts. Refocusing his vacant stare, Prowl looked across the space between them. Jazz wore a serious expression, the glow of his visor bright with intent. “Nothin’s ever set in stone. There’s always a chance thing’s ain't gonna go the way you expect.”

Right, right. Even the best laid plans had a margin of error, even the most precise prediction had the possibility of being false… but the margin of error was too small, the risk too great. Prowl had to choose between two horrible options, two futures that he would cause, and Primus, he didn't know if he could-

“And Prowl.” Jazz broke through the cloud of Prowl’s thoughts once more. His lips had turned up in a smile, determined and reassuring. “We walk this road together, Prowler.”

We walk this road together. The words rang in Prowl’s audials. Together, they would go together, would stand side by side and face towards the future.

Prowl broke his silence with a whisper. “As far as it takes us.”

Jazz smiled, wide and bright.

What happened next took only moments, but to Prowl it all happened slowly. The knife in Jazz’s servo flashed through the air, and Sentinel Prime barely had time to tense before the blade drove into the wrist of the servo under Prowl’s chest.

Sentinel’s servo spasmed, and he pulled it out from Prowl’s frame, his digits turned lax once the blade severed the tendons. The servo about Prowl’s neck loosened due to Sentinel’s surprise and pain, and Prowl pulled away from the Prime’s grasp with ease.

Prowl had a choice to make, a choice that had to be made in less than a second, less than a fraction of a second. And Prowl made it without hesitation.

As he pulled from Sentinel’s hold, Prowl turned about and reached into his subspace. The hilt of his knife was a familiar weight, and Prowl didn't spare a moment to even think. He gripped the hilt tightly in one servo and drove it forwards.

The time between when Jazz threw his knife and when Prowl thrust his own into Sentinel Prime’s chest spanned barely two seconds.

Time resumed, but the world still seemed frozen for a couple moments more. Prowl stared up at Sentinel Prime, his chest heaving, his digits wrapped about a knife that lay buried in the greater mech’s chest. There was no doubt in Prowl’s mind that he'd struck the Prime’s sparkchamber.

Prowl would be lying if he said he’d never thought about killing Sentinel Prime. At his lowest moments–laid over the Prime’s desk or in his berth, standing under the Prime’s subtly possessive touch before the gazes of his mechs–Prowl had certainly fantasized about what it would be like to feel Sentinel Prime’s life fade under his fingertips.

It didn't feel like he thought it would. _Prowl_ didn't feel like he thought he would. The feeling of Sentinel Prime’s frame weakening before him did not bring the swell of triumph, of elation that Prowl had searched for. Instead, he felt empty.

Sentinel Prime wore an expression of surprise, but as his frame registered that it was dying, his expression faded to a pained fury. His knees buckled, and Prowl had to take a step back as the Prime fell to his knees with a resounding thud. Pulling out his knife, Prowl watched energon flow from the open wound in the Prime’s chest.

The Prime’s optics glowed with hate. It pressed down on Prowl, and it would have frightened him if he could manage to feel anything besides the emptiness in his chest.

Sentinel Prime opened his mouth, perhaps to speak, or perhaps to groan or growl. He didn’t make a sound, however. His spark, notched by Prowl’s blade, gave out, and the Prime’s optics went dark. That great frame went limp and slumped to the ground, the energon from the wound slowing its flow once the spark stopped pulsing.

Prowl took a step back from the fallen body of his Prime. Took one step, then another. Then his knees gave out, and he fell. Fell into a warm, firm embrace, and a soft, soothing voice.

“It's alright, Prowler, I got you.” Jazz’s voice was low, a murmur that washed over Prowl’s wings and spark and worked to quiet the apathy that was quickly turning to panic.

Once the apathy faded, Prowl found himself bombarded by several emotions at once. Relief, reassurance, panic, pain, _guilt_. Guilt. Why did he feel guilty for killing a mech who’d hurt him so badly?– had made his life hell, had ruined him with his touch and his words and his manipulations.

“We gotta go, love, we can't stay here.” Jazz urged Prowl up with his words and servos. He murmured words that Prowl couldn't really hear, endearments and comforts and reassurances.

Prowl let Jazz pull him away, and didn't stop staring at Sentinel Prime’s fallen frame until it was gone from his sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sentinel Prime, foreshadowed for so long, yet lasting only two chapters. I'm honestly not sure why it worked out that way, but it seems right. That he was such a huge figure in Prowl's mind, but in the end one's nightmares are larger than life.  
> Tomorrow, we finally change the rating and fullfil that 'eventual smut' tag.  
> Comments are welcome! In fact they're practically required. Even a few words are greatly appreciated, my friends.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sex occurs in this chapter. If that's not for you, skim past once you read the words "Then have me."

Jazz didn't take Prowl back to the same safehouse as before. Of course he wouldn't, Prowl thought. This new one was in a similar area, and was similarly dusty and abandoned. Prowl didn't really pay attention, though– to the tiny residential unit or anything in particular at all. He was still reeling, still in shock, still trying to understand that he was _free now_ , truly.

Jazz stepped away from Prowl’s side, leaving Prowl cold and adrift for a few moments, floating in nothingness as he stared at the wall and tried to _think_.

There was a snap and rustle as Jazz shook out a sheet and laid it over the berth with its thin, threadbare mattress. Then Jazz was at Prowl’s side again, touching his elbow and urging him to sit down on the berth, to lie back against the coarse fabric.

Jazz bent over Prowl’s helm, his visor like a star in the emptiness of Prowl’s tumultuous thoughts. “I'm gonna go back to the old place, get what hasn't already been looted,” Jazz said quietly. A warm servo brushed over Prowl’s brow, then lips pressed to the center of his chevron. “Go to sleep, love, I'll be back soon.”

With nothing left to do, and everything left to think of, Prowl released his tenuous hold on himself and let emotional exhaustion drag him into unconsciousness.

Prowl drifted through the darkness, his thoughts and dreams full of everything and nothing. It felt as though he were sleeping, but when a weight settled by his hip, Prowl opened his optics with ease. He looked blearily up at Jazz.

Jazz’s visor was blue again (had it been blue before? Prowl couldn't remember) and he said, “What are you thinkin’ about, love?”

Prowl looked at his friend for a long time, perhaps too long for any proper conversation. Then he reached out, taking Jazz's servo from where it rested on the berth. A few tugs gave enough of a message, and Jazz obligingly stretched out on the berth at Prowl’s side. Shifting, Prowl rolled onto his side and laid his helm on Jazz’s shoulder, wrapped an arm about Jazz’s waist to keep him from leaving.

“When did you realize?” Prowl asked– the least weighty question he could think of.

Jazz moved, and for a moment Prowl was afraid that he would move away. But Jazz only slipped one arm under Prowl’s neck, shifting the two of them into a more comfortable position.

“That you were gone?” Jazz had turned his face slightly, and his words were muffled against the crown of Prowl’s helm. “Was workin’ the trade and saw somethin’, don't remember what, ‘n was reminded of you. Checked your tracker, and you weren't at the safehouse.” His laugh rumbled through Prowl’s frame like thunder and rain, and Prowl relaxed into it. “You're a rebel, love, but I knew you wouldn't leave without tellin’ me.”

Prowl hummed in reply. He looked over at the far wall, examining the cracks and stains blindly.

The future that Sentinel Prime had seen was coming. Prowl could feel it. It lay just over the horizon, an oncoming storm that Prowl had no choice but to stand against.

But, Prowl thought as he looked at his own servo resting against Jazz’s plating, he wouldn't be alone in weathering that storm. He had Jazz, and Jazz had him, and together they would walk the road they'd set themselves upon.

_“Do you believe yourself in love with him?”_ whispered Prowl’s memories, so recently created, but already fading.

It was a question that Prowl had carefully not been thinking on for the past six years, since he had sat with Jazz in the quiet of his room and said ‘no’ because he was afraid. Afraid of how much he wanted, and afraid of what would happen if he ever recieved it.

Prowl had been in love before. He’d loved Tumbler as much as he could, but in the end they'd parted ways because Prowl’s sense of duty meant more than his love for Tumbler. Their goals had not aligned, and mere feelings had not been enough to keep them together, not when they were otherwise incompatible. And they had been incompatible. Too different in the wrong ways, too stubborn about the wrong things.

Leaving Tumbler had hurt, but it was for the best.

Jazz wasn't Tumbler, though. They'd met through a challenge, and continued to oppose one another in ways that never really tore the other down. Perhaps Prowl may never truly forgive Jazz for not telling him about Barricade, but Jazz understood that. Tumbler wouldn't have understood.

Prowl fit against Jazz like a puzzle piece. His rationality to Jazz’s adaptability. His quiet to Jazz’s bright presence. His dark to Jazz’s light, and Jazz’s black to Prowl’s white, and the expanse of shared grey between them. Jazz was Prowl’s foil, and Prowl was Jazz’s canvas.

Prowl _wanted_. So badly. This was the closest he'd come to loving someone since Tumbler (if what they'd had had ever been love in the first place). Jazz was his closest friend, his dearest companion. When Prowl applied the word ‘love’ to the relationship he had with Jazz, the word flowed easier than it ever had with Tumbler.

Prowl loved Jazz. Perhaps not romantically, or platonically, or familially. Perhaps all of them at once. Prowl loved Jazz, could be in love with him if Prowl only allowed himself. And he wanted to– wanted to be in love with Jazz, wanted to touch him freely and kiss him, to reciprocate all the gestures of affection that Jazz gave so easily, but that Prowl could only give in the bounds of a relationship. A relationship that was more than what they had now.

Jazz loved Prowl. Prowl knew this, had known it since Jazz had touched him in the quiet dark of his room, had offered his love up, had asked for something more. And Prowl had said no.

If Jazz asked again, Prowl didn't know what he would say. But he knew what he wanted to say, and that was yes. Yes, yes, he wanted more. He wanted to stand at Jazz’s side, wanted to kiss him, wanted to hold him.

A storm was coming, a future that would crash over them like waves upon rocks. Prowl did not want to face that future while the past still dragged at him, and his regrets weighed him down. He didn't want him and Jazz to stand in this limbo of not-something-but-not-nothing while the ruin of the future lay ahead.

Prowl wanted, so badly, but he couldn't act. He'd always been so bad at this. His mind urged him to speak, to say something– or perhaps to act, to tilt his head up and kiss Jazz, invite him in and further still. Accept the offer Jazz had made years ago, of a one night stand or something more.

But he was frozen. His limbs wouldn't obey him when he tried to move them, his mouth wouldn't open when he tried to speak. He was torn between what he wanted (a future with Jazz, beside Jazz) and what he feared (the pain of rejection, betrayal, of seeing them come together only to part ways when they had changed too much, become too different).

“I can hear you thinkin’, love,” Jazz said. “Wanna share?”

It was a chance, and Prowl took it. Seized it with both hands and forced himself to choose what he wanted.

Shifting, Prowl turned onto his front, draped over Jazz’s frame. The other mech looked at him, an idle smile on his lips. Prowl didn't let himself doubt; he surged forward and kissed Jazz before his fearful indecision could take hold of him again. Jazz made a sound of surprise, and for a moment Prowl thought he might pull away. He didn't, though. He kissed back.

Prowl had kissed Jazz before, and that was, when he thought about it, a strange thing. They’d had their bruising, deal-with-the-devil kiss when this all started. They'd had their teasing brushes that were never more than taunts. This was different from those kisses.

Prowl didn't like expressing his emotions through words. It was a petty thing to dislike, and probably one of the things that had driven him and Tumbler apart. Even with Jazz, Prowl found it hard to say the larger things. So he tried to say it through this; through the pressure of his lips and the desperate clutching of his hands, the too-fast pulsing of his spark that Jazz could surely feel.

The kiss was brief in reality, but for Prowl it took an eternity as he finally realized that he'd made his choice. And now he had to work out what the consequences would be.

Prowl pulled back, and so did Jazz, and they stared at each other. Jazz’s visor glowed a bright, vibrant blue, and everything about his gaze and expression spoke of emotions that Prowl couldn't quite read.

“What was that, Prowler?” Jazz said at last, breaking the silence that had stretched on too long.

“He was right,” Prowl replied, and it wasn't the right thing to say, because Jazz’s smile, small and faint, disappeared.

“About what?”

Prowl took a shuddering breath. “About the future. The war is growing, and unless someone stops both factions, they'll destroy everything and then one another.” He paused for a moment, and bit his lip. “It's coming, I can feel it. And I don't want to face it alone.”

“You're never alone when I'm able to be with you, Prowl.” Jazz tilted his head, a faint frown turning his lips. “You don't have to do _this_ to keep me close, remember?” He squeezed Prowl's waist, his lips twisting bitterly for a brief moment.

Prowl shook his head quickly. Primus, no, it wasn't that. Primus, no, Jazz, please don't think- “He was right about something else, too,” Prowl said, and continued before Jazz could ask. “When he said I loved you. Was in love with you.” Prowl licked his lips, and his doorwings flicked nervously. “I do love you.” The words slipped from him easily, nothing like the awkward, fumbled words he’d once offered to Tumbler.

“I love you, and I want us to- to be-” Prowl couldn't find the words. Or rather, he could, but he couldn't say them.

Jazz didn't say anything. He looked up at Prowl, quiet and expectant. He wouldn't be filling Prowl’s silences as he had before.

“I want us to be _more_ ,” Prowl managed at last. “He made me see that I could lose everything to the war– that-that we’re all walking towards a future where there's nothing left of what used to be, and the war is all that's left to define us as a race, as individuals.” Prowl hesitated. “I don't want to have any regrets when the road we’re walking splits in two.”

Jazz’s frown took a quizzical turn. “The road we’re–”

“People change,” Prowl interrupted whatever Jazz may have said. “You and I know that more than most. They change and they-they leave, and that's why I've always been so frightened of this. Of what we have.” Jazz opened his mouth to speak, but Prowl silenced him with a shake of his head. “People come and go from your life. And I know one day you'll leave me. But I don't want– I want us to take everything we can from this before that happens.”

Prowl lapsed into silence, his gaze falling to the fairing of Jazz’s collar.

A servo touched Prowl’s cheek. It didn't move to lift his gaze, only resting there. When Jazz spoke, it was in a soft, almost reverent voice. “You're so scared of living in the moment, love. Those processors of yours make it so you're always lookin’ ahead. Your function revolves around preventin’ the worst case scenario. And me? I live life like it's passin’ me by too fast. I never look further than the end of my op, the next time I eat, the next time I see you. An’ maybe that's why we fit together so well. We complement each other.

“These kinda relationships take a lot of talkin’, Prowler. You ‘n me, we’ve done a little too much _not_ -communicatin’.”

“I'm sure we can fix that.”

Jazz’s laugh was soothing as ever. “I'm sure we can, love. So what is it you want now, in this moment?” A claw dipped under Prowl’s chin and brought it up. Prowl looked into Jazz’s visor. “What do you want us to be?”

“Partners,” Prowl said at once. “Lovers.” That word came slower, more hesitant. “What do you want?”

Jazz smiled. “You. However you let me.”

Prowl felt warmth swell up inside his abdomen. Leaning forward, he stole a kiss from Jazz’s lips and whispered, “Then have me.”

The arm about Prowl’s waist held tighter, and the servo at his cheek came about the back of his helm to press them together. Prowl went easily, opening himself up to Jazz’s lips.

Shifting, Prowl threw his leg over Jazz’s hips and straddled him properly, never letting their lips part during the process. Jazz only hummed in approval, the servo at Prowl’s back sliding down to rest as his hip.

“I think we mixed up all the steps of this relationship, love,” Jazz murmured when they finally came apart, a smirk on his lips.

Prowl felt his breath coming somewhat quicker, felt a molten heat spreading from his abdomen to his fingers, his wings, his valve. “How do you mean?”

“Don't it feel like we’ve done this all before?” Jazz asked as he tilted his helm and peppered kisses down Prowl’s throat, the servo at the back of Prowl’s helm moving down to join the other at his hips.

Prowl huffed out a small laugh, his digits skittering over Jazz’s plating as he memorized the texture, the warmth. “I think I would remember if we’d done this before.”

Jazz laughed against Prowl’s neck, the rumble of it going straight to Prowl’s belly. “Well, we’ve done pieces of this, love. I've wanted you against me like this since our spar down in the basements.” His thumbs rubbed circles in Prowl’s plating, squeezing slightly. “Primus, you looked so beautiful.” Jazz pulled back enough to look Prowl in the optic, a soft smile on his face. “That was when I started loving you.”

Prowl accepted the kiss that Jazz gave him, deepening it so that he wouldn't have to speak. He plucked at what wires his digits could find, hips rolling down against Jazz’s codpiece. The visored mech hummed approvingly, and his digits brushed the seam of Prowl’s panel before beginning to tease at the cables in his hips.

They continued like this for a time, unhurried as the heat between them grew. Prowl sighed softly, pressing kisses to Jazz’s neck and shoulders while the other’s servos drifted up along Prowl’s back.

Prowl arched into the touch, doorwings fluttering. Jazz murmured something Prowl couldn't make out, and then his servos were on Prowl’s wings, pressing and stroking and dragging a startled moan from Prowl’s lips.

“I've always loved these wings o’ yours,” Jazz said, a stream of words with little thought behind them as he stroked the sensitive hinges of Prowl’s doorwings. “So expressive, even when you're doin’ your best to keep ‘em still.”

Prowl tilted his head, shivers running down his back as Jazz bit at the cables of his neck and murmured, “I wanna see your pretty doorwings wavin’ in the air while you bounce on my spike.”

“ _Primus_.” Prowl felt a bolt of arousal strike through him, and before he could stop himself he opened his valve panel, leaving his hardly-used spike behind its cover. The cool air of the room brushed against the lips of his valve, and Prowl shivered.

Jazz let out a soft laugh. “Someday, I'm gonna take you slowly.” While one servo remained teasing at Prowl’s doorwings, the other drifted down to his open panel. “Gonna savor you, show you every single way I can make you overload.”

“Please tell me that day is not this day.” Prowl ground down against Jazz’s codpiece, a faint smile turning his lips as he felt the heat beneath the metal.

Jazz laughed again. “It ain't, love.” Two digits slid easily into Prowl’s wet valve, and Prowl couldn't hold back the gasp that escaped him. Primus, it had been years since he'd felt the touch of someone else (yellow optics, betrayed and hateful).

Then Jazz curled his fingers, and Prowl forgot about the neutral that he’d betrayed with the help of the mech now beneath him. Pleasure curled up into Prowl’s belly as Jazz worked him into taking three digits, gasps turning to quiet moans.

“Jazz,” Prowl said, and his voice was faint and shaky. “Jazz, let me-” He couldn't make himself finish the sentence, but hoped that the way he reached down between them spoke enough, his digits rubbing at the panel that hid away Jazz’s spike.

The codpiece slid away with a snick, and Prowl smirked faintly as Jazz’s spike pressurized into his servo. Prowl didn't look down at it, but the dimensions within his palm felt reasonably proportional to Jazz’s frame.

“Whaddya think, lover? Wanna have it in your mouth sometime, give you somethin’ else to use those lips for?” From any other, the words would have been demeaning. _Had_ been used demeaningly. But with Jazz, Prowl only felt heat.

“Yes.” Prowl leaned forward enough to bring his mouth in the vicinity of one of Jazz’s audial horns. Tongue darting out, Prowl licked Jazz’s audial horn as he gave the visored mech’s spike a few graceless pumps. Jazz let out a laugh that came out as more of a groan.

Jazz pulled his digits from Prowl’s valve, leaving an emptiness that had Prowl hissing with discontent. Jazz’s servos settled on Prowl’s hips and eased him downward, and Prowl just barely had the presence of mind to direct Jazz’s spike into his valve before he was sinking down on it, being filled by it.

“Ohh, Primus.” Prowl’s helm fell back, and a guttural groan fell from his lips as he came flush with Jazz’s hips, his node pressed against the hard metal of Jazz’s plating.

“Wrong name, lover.” Jazz’s voice was a low growl that went straight to Prowl’s valve. “Now sit back an’ let me see those wings waving.”

Prowl obliged eagerly, sitting back and settling his weight on Jazz’s hips, gasping as the new position drew Jazz’s spike deeper inside himself. Jazz looked up at him, an admiring grin on his face. Servos rested on Prowl’s thighs, warm and reassuring.

Jazz tilted his helm, and Prowl felt his hidden gaze raking over Prowl’s frame. “Come on then, Prowler,” Jazz said, pressing a thumb against Prowl’s swelling node. He smirked at Prowl’s quiet gasp. “Ride my spike. Let me hear your voice.”

Lifting himself up, Prowl sighed as he felt Jazz’s spike leave his valve until nothing but the head remained within him. Then he lowered himself down, heedlessly quick, and the blaze of pleasure had his back arching, his mouth falling open in a moan that seemed too loud in the quiet of the room. Lifting himself up, Prowl repeated the movement again. And again, and again, and each time he felt his overload drawing closer.

Jazz was saying something, sweet nothings and compliments– Prowl couldn't quite make them out, energon rushing in his audials as he dragged himself towards an overload.

It didn't take very long for Prowl to reach that crest. It had been years since he'd touched himself, longer still since he'd overloaded to another’s touch (yellow optics, a voice saying ‘my dear’), and Prowl’s frame was eager to reach completion after all this time.

Prowl tried to say something, but the words came out as incoherent gasps and moans with syllables scattered amongst them, the only solid word being ‘please’. Please, please, he wanted to overload, he wanted to feel Jazz overload. Wanted to be filled entirely, wanted-

Jazz had done little more than watch Prowl ride his spike, rolling his hips upwards in way that didn't disrupt Prowl’s own motion. But now he thrust up into Prowl’s valve sharply, startling Prowl from the rhythm he'd built. Another hard thrust, deep and possessive.

Prowl’s overload came crashing over him, and he gasped out something that must have been Jazz’s name. The world spun as Jazz suddenly rolled them over, pressing Prowl back against the threadbare sheets of the berth as he took control.

Wrapping his legs as best he could about Jazz’s hips, Prowl shuddered as his lover’s spike thrust in and out of his overload-sensitive valve, igniting a fresh heat.

Braced over Prowl’s frame, Jazz thrust deep and tensed, his engine echoing the growl in his throat as a molten heat flooded Prowl’s valve. Prowl shivered at the sensation, echoes of pleasure striking through his frame.

They lay there panting for a few minutes, neither willing to extricate themselves from each other. At last, Jazz pulled out, dragging a whine from Prowl as the other’s spike rubbed over his oversensitive sensors.

Prowl turned onto his side as Jazz dropped down onto the berth beside him. Jazz opened his arms, and Prowl went into them easily, pressing his face into the crook of Jazz’s neck and sighing as his lover wrapped him in a warm embrace.

“Be mine?” Jazz’s voice was quiet, barely penetrating the haze that had begun to pull Prowl into sleep.

With a contented sigh, Prowl pressed an idle kiss to Jazz’s neck and whispered, “Of course, my love. Always yours.”

Lips pressed against Prowl’s audial. “I’ve been yours since the moment I saw you, Prowler.”

Prowl smiled as he slipped at last into the softness of recharge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are wonderfully appreciated. I haven't written smut in ages, and have never posted any. Prowl's thoughts are thick and muddled, and his difficulties with expressing his wants are mine. I _accidentally_ said the words 'I love you' to my own Jazz, and I guess I meant them but hearing them slip out gave me a short panic. Seems like something Prowl would do.  
>  Comments! Comments! And as for what's next... there is one last revelation from Prowl's past. One that even he does not know.


	35. Chapter 35

The next five days were spent planning how to get into Shockwave’s lab, and keeping their audials to the ground to find out how much Sentinel Prime’s presence and subsequent death affected the equilibrium of Tarn.

From what Jazz told Prowl, there wasn't that much of a difference. The unnamed, underground power was gone, and others rushed to fill the void. It was all over in three days, and the water settled.

Jazz had also insisted on altering the plan so that Prowl accompanied him into Shockwave’s lab. “Like hell I’m gonna leave you where I can't protect you,” he’d said vehemently.

“I'd be in more danger with you than I would be waiting in the safehouse,” Prowl had replied, but he eventually relented to Jazz’s insistence. The visored mech was disturbed by Prowl’s capture, there was no doubt of that– the plan could handle another participant.

Standing at Jazz’s side and looking over Shockwave’s laboratory, Prowl found himself doubting that assessment.

“Jazz, this is a rather high risk mission. I'm not qualified for this kind of operative work.” Nervousness sat in a tight ball at the bottom of Prowl’s sparkchamber, and his servos itched to reach out for Jazz and touch his plating and ground himself.

They'd been too busy of late for their revelation a few days ago to truly change their dynamic. They hadn't interfaced either, but Prowl had found himself reaching for Jazz often, just to touch him. To press their helms together or hold his hand.

Prowl wanted to hold Jazz’s hand now, to reassure himself that the other mech was here with him. But they were working, and this wasn't the time.

“You're better than you think, love. If you weren't so vital for Tac, Stormset probably woulda snatched you up by now.” Jazz watched the facility intently, his frame simultaneously loose and tense as he tracked the movement of the guards. When the opportune moment came, he began to move forward, and Prowl followed close behind.

They entered the facility without incident, Jazz’s skill and their shared sensors allowing them to skirt any patrols.

One would think that, given Shockwave’s known scientific perversions, the inside of his laboratory facilities would reflect the Decepticon in some way. Maybe dark walls, energon stained and disturbingly dirty, or the occasional burnt or corrupted corpse lying in the halls, all accompanied by a soundtrack fitting of a suspense film.

Instead, the halls were a clinical grey, clean and smelling faintly of antiseptic. Prowl and Jazz traversed them quietly, Jazz’s steps silent and Prowl’s nearly so.

They weren't quite walking into this blind, but their mission was rather vague: find out what Shockwave is doing, and how it's a threat to the Autobots and to Cybertron.

In the end, that necessitated finding a console and hacking into it. Jazz could have easily done that on his own, and Prowl’s own processors were more than up to the task. Together, however, they ran the risk of getting caught. One mech plugging into a console wasn't too strange, but two mechs hacking consoles in the same room was cause for concern.

With his wings spread wide to gather as much data as possible, Prowl walked down the halls of Shockwave’s laboratory, shoulders back and helm high as though he belonged there. Rule four of infiltration, don't act like you don't belong there.

(“What's rule one?” Prowl had asked his mentor, curious and keen. Barricade had just grinned.

“Heh, I'm just slappin’ numbers on ‘em, kid. Now show me your ‘I’m a drug dealer’ face.”)

Shaking away the memories, Prowl glanced at the doors he passed, finally spotting the one they'd chosen for Prowl– out of the way, and unlikely to be entered. Jazz could talk or fight his way out of any encounter, and he worked best whilst moving. Prowl, less so.

Jazz made quick work of the lock –it wasn't highly encrypted– and ushered Prowl in. The room was as sterile as the halls outside. A few consoles stood at the walls, and a couple tables sat in the center, bearing medical and scientific instruments and a few things that reminded Prowl of (purple and grey plating, betrayed yellow optics).

The room was in use, which meant the consoles would be connected to the system and unlikely to trigger alarms due to use, but not used often enough that someone would come inside at this time of night. It was the best they could do in these circumstances.

Prowl made his way over to the console furthest from the door, bringing it online swiftly. Jazz lingered in the doorway, and Prowl glanced up, meeting his friend’s (his lover’s) gaze. Jazz smiled, quick and reassuring.

“Don't lose your knife now, Prowler. Wouldn't do for me to lose ya here of all places.”

Prowl offered a brief smile. “Of course. Don't lose your mini-me.”

“Don't you mean my mini- _you_?” Jazz’s grin widened for a moment before professionalism overtook him. “I'll be back in forty minutes, max.”

“Understood.”

Jazz retreated, and the door clicked shut.

Pulling a chair over to his chosen console, Prowl sat down and plugged his hardline into the terminal. Optics dimming, Prowl began to search.

Hacking a console was different from hacking a mech. For one thing, the console didn't know you were invading until you began looking for files that it didn't have clearance to access. For another, a console’s firewalls were less dynamic; they didn't have the fluid defenses of a mech coding on the fly.

Given that Prowl was looking for data that Shockwave himself had recorded and presumably had reports on, the console caught on quick that the mech accessing it was not authorized. Prowl cut off the emergency alarm easily, continuing his steady assault until the firewalls crumbled beneath him. It took quite a bit of processor power once he got to the firewalls wrapped about Shockwave’s data, but enough pressure had even those falling.

No ordinary mech could do this, there was no doubt. Accessing files through a console connected only by server lines? Only the best could manage it, and Prowl found himself smirking faintly in triumph.

The files had their own encryptions– there was no way Prowl would be reading them here and now. But he flicked through them nonetheless, downloading the ones with the most intriguing titles. If there was one thing Shockwave didn’t do, thankfully, it was craft elaborate and enigmatic titles for his projects. ‘Artificial Sparks’ went into Prowl’s hard drive, as well as ‘Synthetic Energon’, ‘Insecticons’, and a few others. With the firewalls still fighting against Prowl, there was no knowing how much of the actual files would make it through the download, but the Autobots’ scientist could do with the scraps.

The titles flashed past Prowl’s processor, each considered briefly.

Something snagged Prowl’s attention as it skimmed past, drawing him back to it even as the majority of his processor power continued searching Shockwave’s databanks.

‘ΠΔ2932’ the project title read. It was a cold constructed mech’s serial number. _Prowl’s_ serial number.

Distantly, Prowl was aware that he'd found a file titled ‘Fall of Cybertron’, and had promptly given it the greatest priority in the download, all the others being shunted aside until their downloads were little more than a trickle. With all the encryption, the download would take several minutes. Perhaps long enough to crack the encryption on this file with _Prowl’s serial number_ on it.

Giving the download as much processor priority as he could, Prowl turned his attention to the file and readied himself to battle the encryption.

The door opened, and Prowl looked up, a blaster in his hand before he could even give it a thought. Surprise struck through him like lightning, and pale blue optics flared almost white.

“I thought the Autobots had sent Special Operations. It is exceptionally fortunate that they sent you instead.” Shockwave stood in the doorway, his single yellow optic adding a new shade to the few light sources casting shadows about the room.

Prowl didn't hesitate to train his blaster on Shockwave’s helm, tracking his movement as the heavy Decepticon stepped into the room and shut the door behind himself.

“I had wondered when I would be able to deliver my solution to your spark fluctuations. This seems quite opportune.” Shockwave seemed the sort of mech that gave thought to every movement. No gesture was unconsidered, and the sedateness of his movements was merely surety that he would complete his task at a time he considered reasonable.

Prowl almost shot the Decepticon when he'd moved, but the scientist locked him in place with a stare that seemed simultaneously indifferent and chastising. Slowly, Shockwave reached into subspace and drew out… a panel?

Confusion cut through Prowl’s surprise, followed quickly by suspicion. He had a great many questions and demands, but a staple of interrogation is letting the interrogatee speak on their own. They always had something to say, and clearly Shockwave had _something_ he wanted to say.

“I'll admit to wondering how our second meeting might occur.” Shockwave spoke easily, as if there was absolutely nothing wrong with having conversation with an Autobot currently hacking into your systems. “It is well that we met here rather than in battle.”

Comm. lines were far too risky, not in the midst of a Decepticon facility. Pulling up his trackers, Prowl brought up Jazz’s. It'd been thirty minutes since he'd left and… yes, he seemed to be on his way back. Prowl needed only to stall for time. It shouldn't be too hard, considering how strangely amiable Shockwave was acting.

Prowl had no frame of reference for the scientist of course, having never met him but– wait, Shockwave had said _second_ meeting.

“We’ve met before?” Prowl had to keep him talking. And Primus knows Prowl might like some damn answers as well.

Shockwave nodded slowly. His frame was still, each ventilation measured as though to take as little motion as possible. “Yes, although I am sure you don't remember it.”

“And that?” Prowl let his gaze flick to the panel in Shockwave’s hand, the blaster in Prowl’s own hand never wavering. “What is that?”

“It's a panel meant to be installed in your sparkchamber in order to settle the spark fluctuations.” Shockwave held up the panel for somewhat closer inspection. “I was initially surprised when the fluctuations were recorded in your medical file, as such an issue must have existed for far longer. Given the surroundings you grew up in, however, I understand why you are reluctant to submit to medical or scientific professionals.”

Prowl balked. “The surroundings I– how much do you know about me?” His attention flicked to the suspended decryption of file ‘ΠΔ2932’, then to the ongoing download of file ‘Fall of Cybertron’.

“I've been following your trail since your spark was placed in your frame.” Shockwave’s gaze flicked over Prowl’s body. “There have been times when I lost sight of you, but never entirely.”

Prowl was almost too shocked to feel the underlying horror at the thought that _Shockwave_ of all people had been following his life. “ _Why_?” Wasn't his life fucked up enough? Didn't he have enough fraggers haunting his past?

“It would be unprofessional of any scientist to let their creation roam free without supervision.”

Prowl hadn't thought Shockwave a mech fond of dramatic effect, but perhaps that was a remainder from the mech’s many years as a Senator. Years that overlapped quite a bit with the date of Prowl’s creation– had Shockwave even practiced science in those centuries? Prowl knew next to nothing about the Decepticon except his work during the war.

“What?” Prowl could only be thankful his bewilderment did not affect the aim of his blaster, still trained on Shockwave’s helm.

Shockwave shook his helm. “It's all in your file. I don't have time to explain it to you personally.” His single optic flickered, and his gaze shifted to the shadows. “It would be best the two of you leave before security discovers your presence.”

Jazz’s visor came online and lit the dark corner with blue. The ceiling vent hung open above his helm. Prowl had felt Jazz drop down in silence, doorwings attuned to any sign of his arrival.

“Long time no see, Shockers.” Jazz stalked his way over to Prowl, taking up a predatory stance before the tactician still seated at the console.

“And a pleasant time at that.” Shockwave made no move to lift his cannon-arm, but Prowl remained on guard as the heavy mech shifted his weight slowly. “I present no threat. Take the data you came here for, and this as well-” he tossed the panel over, and Jazz caught it deftly. “If you like, you can have your file, Prowl. Perhaps it will provide you with answers.”

A low growl came from Jazz. “You're letting us _take_ the data? No fuss, no tricks?” His voice dripped with skepticism.

Shockwave turned an indifferent stare on the visored mech. “Cybertron is dying. It would be for the best that the Cybertronian race as a whole is aware of it, so that it is not caught by surprise.”

Jazz scoffed. “I see. How altruistic of you.”

“Not altruism,” Shockwave replied blandly. “Merely logic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll bet none of you saw that coming because this being a closed POV fic, Prowl had no idea about any of this and there was no foreshadowing at all.  
> There are some things that will never be explained in this fic: how Barricade knew Prowl was taken by the Functionists; anything about Sentinel Prime and how he faked his death, etc; basically, there are a lot of questions left unanswered, and they won't be getting any answers. In the unlikely event that I write a sequel, they'll get answers. But until then, this fic is about Prowl and his relationship to Jazz, and Prowl facing his past.  
> Comments, please. I want to see how you guys react to this unprecedented event :)


	36. Chapter 36

“You're sure you want to give this to me and not to Perceptor?” Ratchet said when Prowl gave him the ‘ΠΔ2932’ file.

It had taken eight hours for Jazz to get them from the Decepticon facility to the Autobot shuttle, still resting where they'd left it. Eight hours of winding paths that rid them of their pursuers, if there had been any in the first place. Twelve hours of tense silence on the shuttle back to Iacon, fixing their paint to its original state being the only entertainment, and Prowl had been ready to collapse when he gave all the data to SpecOps and the file with his number on it to Ratchet.

“I'd rather you than any scientist,” Prowl replied, before stalking off to fall into his berth and try to forget the events of the past week.

Jazz was there when he'd entered his room. No words were exchanged between them as Prowl took up his customary space near the wall on the berth, and Jazz his place on the outer edge.

“Debriefing’s gonna be at three tomorrow,” Jazz said into the quiet of the room.

“Alright.” Prowl turned onto his side, pressing himself to Jazz’s frame. The other mech was warm, and the rise and fall of Jazz’s chest lulled Prowl to sleep.

Having no work the following morning, Prowl managed to snatch an extra hour of sleep before his frame refused to lie abed any longer. Jazz had slipped out of his arms sometime in the morning, leaving with a whisper and a kiss on Prowl’s helm.

A message from Ratchet sat in Prowl’s comms, requesting that he come to the CMO’s office before the debriefing and after reasonable morning hours. Being that Prowl found himself within those parameters, Prowl decided to go to Ratchet. He had nothing better to do than think, after all, and that wasn't doing him any favors.

By the time he arrived at the door to Ratchet’s office, Prowl had almost successfully managed not to psych himself up wondering just what exactly the CMO had discovered in the file that, if Shockwave’s dedication to his work was anything to go by, probably contained more of Prowl’s life than Prowl himself even knew.

A knock on the door granted Prowl access. Stepping inside, Prowl closed the door carefully and obliged Ratchet’s hand-wave to the guest chair before the CMO’s cluttered desk.

Placing his hands in his lap and away from Ratchet’s line of sight, Prowl indulged himself in twisting his fingers together nervously until the joints popped.

“You read the file?” Prowl said, forcing his voice into neutrality.

Ratchet sighed heavily, flicking his digits to a datapad sitting amongst the others. “Yeah, I read it. I'm guessing by the pensive look on your face that you didn't?” He raised a brow, mouth twisting with something like disapproval.

“Correct.” Prowl took a breath. “I'm sure you can understand why I was… reluctant to read it.”

“About as much as I don't understand why you let me read it.” Ratchet sat back in his chair, which creaked quietly. “So what do you want to hear, short or long version?”

“Whichever suits you.”

Ratchet sat forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “Okay, then…” He frowned thoughtfully. “Alright, first things first.” He met Prowl's optics seriously. “You're not constructed cold.”

Prowl barely had a moment to feel surprised before Ratchet hurried on.

“Or rather, your frame is constructed cold,” he continued, “but your spark originated in a hotspot on Luna 2 some however many millions of years ago. Shockwave got his hands on it, and had the bright idea of shoving it into a frame meant to receive a cold spark.” Ratchet sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'm a doctor, not a scientist, but even I can say that that's _not_ ethical.” The medic’s servo fell away, and he looked at Prowl.

The doorwinger looked back, too stunned to think for a few moments. At last, Prowl said softly, “Please continue, Ratchet.”

Ratchet pursed his lips. “Right, so he did that, and backed off to observe the result from a distance. When you displayed your unusual processor aptitude, the Functionist Council snatched you up– by the way, I don't know about you, but this is a weird way to finally admit your true medical history to your doctor.” Ratchet gave Prowl a brief glare, but it had no real heat to it.

Prowl managed a small, suitably chastised smile. Ratchet’s attempt at decreasing the tension in the air worked, somewhat, and the tightness between Prowl’s shoulders eased.

“According to Shockwave’s notes, he theorized that if your spark had been forged into a frame as it should have, you likely would have developed Outlier abilities. As it was, your spark did manage to alter your cold constructed frame’s processor minutely, allowing for the advanced processing abilities you now have.” Ratchet clasped his hands together, and Prowl spared a moment to examine how the older mech’s digits overlapped one another.

“If I– I have a forged spark, a hotspot spark. How did the Council’s scientists not realize?” Prowl twisted his digits together as tight as he could. “They must have run thousands of tests on me, including my spark.”

Ratchet’s lips twisted into something that was almost a wry smile, and he plucked the datapad from his desk and onlined it. “Shockwave has a few scathing criticisms of the Council and its scientists in the first few centuries of entries.” He paused, and his tone took on that of someone reciting from a page. “‘According to the Council’s findings, ΠΔ2932’s spark is cold. They are unable to discover the difference between a hotspot and cold spark (a dilemma that has plagued them for centuries) and have decided to believe what they wish to believe.

“The Council’s scientists are as Functionist as their masters. Functionism, being a rather blindly material belief, has biased the Council’s searches; they look only for physical signs of difference. I, however, have discovered that it is the frequency at which a spark vibrates that may tell a hotspot spark from a cold one. A hotspot spark carries its own unique frequency, no two alike, and while cold sparks are equally unique, the base of each matches that of the Matrix of Leadership.’”

Ratchet set the datapad aside. “Shockwave records quite a bit of your history. Purely scientific, of course. This file is as much an insight into Shockwave as it is you. Initially, once the Functionists released you, he recorded your achievements in the police force. He followed your career, making notes of how perhaps your unusual makeup has affected your emotional growth, besides the trauma you took under the Functionists.

“The tone of the notes changes after you move to Kaon to work under Sentinel Prime,” he went on. Prowl tensed, doorwings flaring. Ratchet frowned slightly but continued. “That was the same time period when he underwent empurata and Shadowplay. His records continue, though there's a marked gap of about four years. They're far more impersonal, and continue as such until the latest entries.

“Now _this_ ,” Ratchet said as he reached into a drawer on his desk and pulled out the panel Shockwave had given to Prowl and Jazz. “This is made of sentio-metallico from the hotspot your spark was mined from. Thankfully it's not from a mech, though I wouldn't put it past Shockwave to do that kind of slag.” Ratchet set the panel on the desk. “He theorized that your spark fluctuations are due to your spark being aware on some level that it's not in the frame it ought to be in. The fluctuations are your spark trying compensate for that. He reasoned that this,” Ratchet gesture to the panel, “would calm your spark, since it would be in the presence of the sentio-metallico that would have made up your frame had it been forged.

“The panel’s supposed to be installed on an inside wall of your sparkchamber, doesn't matter which one. Now, I can do this for you. Question is, of course, whether you want to put something _Shockwave_ gave you into your sparkchamber as a solution that is completely theoretical.” Ratchet spread his servos. “You don't have to make a decision now. Hell, I won't let you even consider it until Perceptor has all but pulled that thing apart.”

“Right,” Prowl said quietly. It was all far too much to process.

Ratchet peered intently at the younger bot. “This doesn't change anything, Prowl. I am interested, I'll admit, but I won't let anything happen to you without your consent.”

Prowl blinked and twisted his digits together again. “Thank you, Ratchet.” Pushing his chair back and standing up, Prowl pursed his lips. “I will… see you at the debriefing. Thank you for doing this for me.”

“Of course, kid.”

In all, Prowl’s talk with Ratchet didn't take more than thirty minutes, if that. His trek to the rec. room was too short to process any of what he'd been told, and so was his trip to the energon dispenser to get a cube, and then his walk to a table in the corner.

By the time the hour of the briefing rolled around, Prowl still hadn't quite reconciled himself with these new truths. Sitting down at the conference table, Prowl decided that he wouldn't try to think about this any more.

He had quite enough marking his past. In the end, this was just one more thing to try to forget.

As 1500 came around, the other officers started filing in. Smokescreen was the first to arrive, a minute after Prowl. He offered a small smile, and sat down at his seat. Next was Optimus Prime, who sat at the head of the table.

The pressure of the Prime’s presence felt less heavy now, the weight of his legacy less frightening as Prowl reflected his years of service beneath both Primes against one another, and found Optimus preferable.

Jazz sauntered in after Ironhide arrived and dropped into the chair beside Prowl. Red Alert entered next, followed by Ratchet, Stormset, Wheeljack, and finally Ultra Magnus.

The table filled up, and when 1500 struck, Optimus Prime began.

“As both Prowl and Jazz may have realized, this is no longer an ordinary debriefing.” The Prime looked about the table at his officers. “This is an officer’s meeting, and you two are involved as you brought back the intel,” Optimus directed his words to Prowl and Jazz before waving a hand to Wheeljack.

The scientist pulled up images on the table’s projector; graphs and notes that Prowl couldn't quite read from his angle.

“According to Shockwave’s research,” Wheeljack said, “Cybertron is dying.” He paused a moment, glancing about the table. When no one spoke, he continued, “Cybertron’s energy reserves were failing even before the war started, but the war has taken a particular toll. Shockwave predicts –and our scientists agree– that Cybertron will be rendered largely uninhabitable in a few decades, perhaps even less.

“The greatest issue is energon, of course. Hotspots have long since stopped appearing, and perhaps that was the first symptom. Now, we’ll be facing gradually increasing energon shortages until Cybertron stops producing entirely.”

Wheeljack glanced about the table again and said nothing more.

Stormset was the first to speak. “Unless the war ends in the next couple years,” he said quietly, “We’ll be carrying it offworld.”

There was no doubt in anyone’s minds that they would have to leave Cybertron. Prowl considered it, and found that he could barely dredge up any grief; Cybertron was dying, but Praxus was already gone. Prowl had little left to mourn of the planet that hadn't already abandoned him. (But that was a lie. He had everything to mourn. It was his _planet_ , his _home_.)

For a moment, Prowl thought of Barricade. Cybertron was large, yes, but the universe was bigger. If they really did leave Cybertron ( _when_ they did) Prowl would never see his mentor again. Wouldn't even know if he had died. He'd be left with bittersweet memories and the knowledge that there would be no reparation of their relationship.

Prowl looked at the future and saw everything Sentinel Prime had spoken of and more.

“If we take our war offworld,” Prowl said softly, more to himself than to the mecha at the table, “It will spread like a disease.”

Silence fell over the table, pensive and dark.

At last, Optimus Prime said, “We may not have a choice in the matter.”

From then on, they made plans. How would they ration remaining energon? What resources would be put into building spacecraft for when the time came? Eventually, there was no more talk of if they would leave Cybertron, only _when_.

As the meeting came to a close, Optimus Prime said, “I have a few final changes to make. Firstly,” he looked to Prowl as he spoke, “I'm promoting you to TacHead, Prowl. We need our best on top in order to face what lies ahead. Additionally, I'm placing Jazz as Stormset’s third in command.

“You’ve not yet proven your loyalty entirely, Jazz,” Optimus said to the visored mech, “but at this point we can't afford to pick and choose. We need our best, and you are undoubtedly one of the best in your field. As the Autobots come to trust you more, I have no doubt you will become a head of operations in your own right.”

Prowl glanced about the table. Smokescreen wore a proud grin, undaunted by his demotion. The others were casting thoughtful glances to Jazz, Stormset in particular looking remarkably calm.

“Thank you for coming to this meeting, all of you, “ the Prime said, looking about the table slowly. “A dark future lies ahead of us, and we must stand united before it.

“Till all are one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right, I ended a chapter with 'till all are one'. You proud?  
> To clear up a few more things, no, Ostaros does not exist in this fic, and a sequel is incredibly unlikely.  
> I sort of slipped it past in this chapter, but no, Shockwave did not record the way Sentinel Prime treated Prowl. Whether because he didn't know or because he didn't think it worth noting down, I'm not sure, but Prowl and Jazz will carry that secret to their graves. Probably.  
> Tomorrow! The last chapter! I can't wait, and I hope you guys can't either. Comments, please! I want to know what you guys are thinking :D


	37. Chapter 37

“I thought I'd find you here.”

Prowl looked away from the observatory tower’s window to meet Jazz’s gaze. Holding out a hand, Prowl beckoned Jazz to sit beside him on the threadbare couch.

“Come sit, my love,” Prowl said, the half-teasing endearment falling far too easily from his lips. Jazz smiled and obliged, sinking down onto the cushions. Pulling up his knees, Prowl angled himself towards Jazz, leaning back against the armrest.

“You went in to see Ratchet before the meeting,” Jazz said, turning towards Prowl and laying one arm over the back of the couch, digits reaching.

Prowl took Jazz’s hand, tangling their digits together absently. “I gave him the file Shockwave had on me.” Taking a breath, Prowl sighed. “Apparently I'm one of Shockwave’s long-term experiments. A hotspot spark placed inside a constructed frame. That's why I have spark issues.” Why the first decades and of his life were full of pain and fear.

Jazz’s visor flashed. “Primus, goes to show he was fragged up even _before_ the Council ruined him.” Dark digits squeezed Prowl’s comfortingly. “Jus’ ‘cause you're one mech’s experiment don't mean you're not a person, lover. Trash an’ treasure and all that.” There were more words behind Jazz’s visor, but he didn’t speak them.

Offering a small, grateful smile, Prowl looked out the windows to Iacon. “It’s just one more thing I have to put behind me,” he said quietly. One more thing to forget, like the gentle touch of his neutral lover and the proud smile on his mentor’s face and the terrible voice of his Prime.

Jazz hummed in mild assent, his voice resounding through the small room. “When the world’s endin’, there's not much more you can do but look forward instead of backward.”

“Yes.” Prowl pursed his lips and watched the sun descend on Iacon’s horizon, casting the world into shades of red, pink, and orange. “Our world is ending, and we have no choice but to leave it behind.”

“I might miss it, I think,” Jazz said casually, the light of his visor flickering. “Got some good memories an’ some bad. Y’always feel some loyalty to your home planet.

“In the end, though, Cybertron is made up of its people, not its metal. It's just a planet.” Jazz’s voice faded away as he spoke, pain clouding his voice and belying his words.

“Right now, Cybertron is made of war, as well.” Prowl stared at the horizon, not really seeing it. “It permeates us, leaving no spark untouched. We’ll be lost to it, soon enough. And when we leave, we’ll bring it with us. A disease that causes death, and whose only cure is death.”

“It is what it is, love.” Jazz squeezed Prowl’s servo again. “We’re too far gone to change anything. All we can do is seize this with both hands and make it ours. Face the future and let it wash over us. We can't change what's coming, but it's what we do after that counts.”

Silence filled the air, leaving Prowl to his thoughts for a moment. He considered speaking them aloud, then hesitated, then opened his mouth to speak. Habit kept the words from his lips, however, and Prowl struggled with himself for a few moments before finally speaking.

“I wish we lived in a different time.” Grief tightened Prowl’s throat for a moment (just a moment). “I wish that Praxus was still standing. That- that Barricade was still here. I wish we could have a real home.”

Jazz’s voice wavered just slightly as he said, “No use wishin’, love.”

Prowl smiled wearily, turning his helm to look his lover in the visor. “I know. I just wish we’d had a chance to build a life together.”

“We still can, Prowler. Jus’ not that kind of life.” Jazz sighed. “D’you remember when you asked me what I would do if the war ended?”

Prowl nodded. “Yeah.”

Jazz’s visor flickered slightly. “I'd find us a place on the outskirts of Iacon. We’d live there for a while until they start rebuildin’ Praxus, then we move back over there. You get your law enforcement job. I find work as, I dunno, security or something until things’ve picked up enough that I could make actual money out of the entertainment business.”

Jazz smiled faintly, helm tilting. “An’ we live like that. You come home, an’ I come home, and we sit in our flat and drink flavoured energon and watch old films. Live quiet lives.”

It was a lovely image. Prowl could see it in his mind’s eye. It was beautiful, and unattainable. “And if the war doesn't end?” Prowl whispered.

“Then we keep on with the Autobots. Primus knows I'd love to take you and run away from all this, but you'd never let me.”

Prowl allowed himself a small huff. “No, I wouldn't.”

Jazz grinned for a moment. “Then we stay Autobot. We climb the ranks because we’re amazing at what we do. You go to the Tac department, save lives and lead armies. I go out on Ops missions, bring back intel and kill what needs killin’.

“An’ we always come home to each other.”

Tears pricked at the corners of Prowl’s optics. He didn't know what they were for. “You can't promise that,” he whispered.

Jazz brought Prowl’s servo up to his lips, pressing a kiss to Prowl’s knuckles in a reassuringly familiar gesture. “I will _always_ come home to you, Prowl,” Jazz said earnestly, but the twist of his mouth exposed his uncertainty. It gave Prowl some small amount of comfort to know that Jazz had let that uncertainty show.

Shifting forward, Prowl slid into Jazz’s lap, straddling the mech’s hips and wrapping his arms about Jazz’s shoulders in a hesitant embrace.

White shoulders shuddered, and Jazz lifting his arms, looping them about Prowl’s waist and back, pulling him close. That visored helm fell to rest against Prowl’s shoulder, weary and trusting.

Bowing his helm over his partner’s, Prowl pressed a kiss to the curve of Jazz’s audial horn. “Don't lie to me about this, my love,” Prowl whispered. The servo at Prowl’s back clenched, and Prowl trailed a servo along the lines of Jazz’s plating. “Don't lie to yourself.”

“I don't want us to be a self-fulfilling prophecy,” Jazz replied, his voice slightly staticked.

“I know.” The tears at Prowl’s optics grew too large to contain, and they trickled down his cheeks. “But aren't you the one who is determined to defy the norm? We can live in the moment, but we have to look towards the future too, even if it's one that we don't want to see.” Their respective flaws, combined into this single moment, facing the rising tide and the future that would crash over them.

Jazz’s hold tightened. “I won't lose you to this.”

Prowl knew, then, what his tears were for. They were for what could have been, the life that the two of them could have had, the future that should be but wouldn't be.

Something rose in Prowl’s throat, almost like grief. “You have me,” Prowl said softly. “You have my spark, and my love, and no matter what happens, you'll always know that I loved you.”

“I love you too, Prowler.” Jazz lifted his face from Prowl’s shoulder, and his expression was mournfully wry. “Jus’ look at what you’ve done to me, love. Woulda never been like this a couple centuries ago.”

“We’ve changed one another.” Prowl smiled faintly. “I hope it's for the better.” He faltered. “We've done so many things, and none of them are good.”

(He'd murdered a city full of neutrals, had doomed his lover to madness with no way of escape, had made the hard choices that no one else wanted to make.)

One servo came away from Prowl’s back to touch his face. Jazz wiped away the marks of Prowl’s tears slowly, gently. “You reminded me that there's more to live for than killin’, love.” He smiled. “The past makes us who we are, but we decide who we’re gonna be from here on out.”

Prowl looked into his lover’s face, searching his gaze for the affection Prowl knew was there. “And who will we be?” Prowl asked.

Jazz’s smile was playful and teasing as he pulled himself from the murk they'd drawn one another into. “We’ll be Jazz an’ Prowl, the most fearsome Autobot duo next to the twins.” His smile softened. “We’ll be two mechs who found redemption in one another.”

That was something attainable. Something Prowl could reach for, take with both hands and hold to his chest before it faded away. A future they could make.

Prowl gave his own smile, small but playful as he said, “Will you promise me that? Shall we make a deal with the devil?”

The blue of Jazz’s visor glittered with amusement and love. “An’ who's the devil here, love?”

“We both are.” Two demons seeking redemption in the other’s arms.

The servo that still rested at Prowl’s cheek moved, and digits stroked down the line of Prowl’s jaw. “Then kiss your devil, Prowler,” Jazz whispered. “Let us make a road to walk along together.”

Prowl’s spark swelled in his chest, and he felt too full of affection and love and fear for the two of them, fear of the future to come. “As far as it takes us, my love,” he whispered, like a prayer.

It was hard to tell who initiated the kiss, but it didn't really matter. It was soft, and Prowl poured all of his love into it, put his spark in his mouth and let Jazz consume it. Consume his fear, and his love, and his overwhelming gratefulness that Jazz was here with him now, at the beginning of the end.

The sun set slowly on Cybertron, the glow of it framing the two mechs in pink, red, and gold. They sat together silently, wrapped in one another’s arms, awaiting the dawn of the new age.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my first few notes for this fic, I wrote 'bittersweet ending? Sort of a hopeful but apprehension as we look forward'. And that idea stuck with me all the way here. It's fitting, really, that I post this on New Year's Eve, as I look forward to an uncertain future and hope that I can be a better person, and that I'll have my own Jazz at my side.  
> Thank you all for sticking with me through this, reading the poorly composed first chapters and watching my writing skills get steadily better over time. This really has been a journey, and I'm glad you were here with me during it. I hope you all have an excellent 2019.


End file.
